Thoughts on Mother's Day

Mother's Day is not a happy day for many women.  Women struggling with pregnancy loss, infertility or those who hear the ticking of their biological clock with no possibility for a meaningful relationship on the horizon, struggle.  If our mothers are no longer around, it can be a difficult day or if our mothers were so wounded that they were unable to adequately parent us, it can be challenging.  I confess to struggling with this day for over three decades for a number of reasons.

My expectations of how I should be treated on "my" day were rarely met.  I expected my ex-husband to expend the same amount of effort for me that I did to make his day meaningful.  He rarely met those expectations.  And to be fair, my expectations were probably unrealistic.  The expectations created by the media hype surrounding this day has also been problematic for me.  My real life rarely matched the rose-colored Hallmark version of mothering or of how Mother's Day should be celebrated.

"Good Enough" Mothering

At this stage of my life and in light of the trauma of finding out that the man I was married to is a pedophile, I have spent a lot of time in reflection and introspection.  There are many things I regret about the way I did life as a married woman and the way I parented my children.  One of the phrases that always jumps out at me when reading the S-Anon literature is that we "often neglected our children" due to living with an individual struggling with sexual addiction or compulsions.  I always thought I was a good mom, and still believe that I was, in many ways.  But one of the more grueling aspects of recovery is realizing that I did neglect my children emotionally in order to cope with that knot n the pit of my stomach that I now recognize was my ex's undiagnosed pedophilia.

I spent so much time trying to create and maintain the "perfect" home and life and to keep things running smoothly that I did not have time or patience for my children's emotional needs.  I rarely just sat on the floor and played with them--there was too much to do.  I was operating out of a vow that I made as a young woman after my profound betrayal.  That vow was that I would be such a good wife that he would never "stray" again.  If I was a good enough wife, he would be happy and not give into temptation and no child would ever again be hurt by his hands.  But in the process of trying to be a "good enough" wife, I was not the mother to my children that I had hoped I would be.  This is my regret.

In psychological literature, there is the concept of the "good enough" mother.  Simply put, it holds that if a child receives enough nurture and love from his mother on a fairly consistent basis, he will have the resiliency to overcome any deficiencies in mothering he may have experienced.  The good enough mother is not perfect but the parenting she provides is sufficient enough to instill within her child the confidence and esteem needed to overcome her mistakes and shortfalls.  I would venture to say that most women feel they were or are not "good enough" mothers on Mother's Day, which is a tragedy.

Mothering My Inner Child

My days of active parenting of my children are over but I still have a child who needs my attention and love.  My inner child has been growing but still has lots of insecurities, fears and needs.  I am the only mother she has and she is depending on me to care for her tender soul.  I have been an absent and neglectful mother to this child for many decades and she knows it.  But I will renew my pledge to be a "good enough" mother to her on Mother's Day.  She will teach me to play and I will teach her to feel secure and loved.  She will move me out of my head and into my heart and I will hold her when she is lonely, afraid, or sad.  Together we will rediscover the joys of dancing in the rain, running barefoot through the grass and just sitting quietly to watch a hummingbird at the feeder.

Sculpture by Josep Sanchez Carrasco

Someone has said that it is in the gaze of love between a mother and her nursing baby that we first learn the concept of relationship.  We spend our entire life trying to regain that connection and that gaze.  We look for the gaze of love and connection in so many wrong places, which leads to all sorts of painful consequences.  I love this picture of a sculpture by Jose Sanchez Carrasco because it illustrates the gaze of love that a woman and her child share even before the child is born.  And it also serve to remind me that I have the power to grant my own child within the love and connection she is crying for.

Honoring Myself as a Mother and a Child

 Whether we want it to or not, Mother's Day is here.  For some of us, it will be a good day; for others, we will struggle to get through it.  We may be surprised or we may be disappointed; our children may honor us or forget about the day altogether.  Regardless of what my kids do, however, I plan on honoring myself.  I was a good enough mother and I am profoundly proud of my three amazing kids.  They have navigated the rough waters of the past two years with remarkable grace, strength and fortitude--I must have done something right!  I will honor the job I did with them, forgiving myself for my failures.  And I will honor my inner child and the new relationship I am forging as her mother.  I may even "allow" her to buy me some flowers for our garden because it is a day to celebrate--maybe not in in the Hallmark kind of way but to celebrate nonetheless.

Just Three Inches: The Bondage of Family Roles

The practice of binding young girls' feet to prevent them from growing was commonplace in China until early in the 20th century.  Small feet were considered beautiful and were a prerequisite for finding a wealthy husband.  The ideal length for an adult woman's foot was just three inches.  My granddaughter's feet were just a bit smaller than that at her birth.  Just three inches!  Can you imagine an adult woman's foot the size of this line?

The process of foot binding was harsh and painful and often necessitated breaking the bones in the feet and curling the toes under the sole of the foot.  Ouch!  My feet hurt just thinking about it.  Think of the restrictions this practice placed on a woman's ability to walk or a child's freedom to run and play.  Thank goodness the practice has died out in China!

And yet, there exists within any organization or system, practices that can be just as restrictive and just as harmful as Chinese foot binding.  I'm not talking about the outlandish things women of the 21st century do to make themselves more beautiful.  That's a topic for another article.  Rather, I am referring to those inflexible rules and rigid roles that all organizations have to some extent, including families.

In my family of origin, I was the "Good Child" and the "Caretaker," so of course I married a man who needed caring for.  Recovery has required that I take a long, hard look at not just my marriage but those messages that I received as a child and how they have influenced my choices over the years.  The "Good Child" doesn't make waves, earns good grades and goes from accomplishment to accomplishment.  She is often a leader and yet is quite serious and seldom plays.  She is adult-like, extra mature and seems to have it all together.  She is helpful and successful but internally she is scared, guilty, lonely and bound by shame.  As the caretaker, she takes on the responsibility for the emotional well-being of the family.  You couldn't paint a more accurate picture of me if you tried.

I've known since I was barely two that I was "Mommy's little helper" and was, as my therapist quipped, a "Step-stool child."  My childhood was spent on a step-stool--a stool that enabled me to reach the sink which was too high for me so I could wash dishes, or the cabinet where the cereal bowls were for my baby sister's breakfast.  I was the child who learned how to quiet a colicky baby while my mom prepared dinner and to diaper an infant before I was eight.  I have been the secret-keeper, the counselor and the parentified child.  And when I attempt to step out of those prescribed roles, the "system" fights back because it wants things to stay the same; it craves homeostasis.

But keeping things the same is done at the expense of the well-being and growth of the individuals within the system.  Much like the bound foot, the expected roles restrict growth and inhibit full flourishing of one's human potential.  Stepping out of the roles that bind us and flexing our individuality and growth is essential for recovery and personal transformation.  I can no longer be the caretaker, secret-keeper or the good child if I want to truly recover and become the person I was meant to be.  As I attempt to make these changes, the "system" pushes back, cajoling, shaming or trying to threaten me to "change back" to the familiar role.  My choice is either to allow the system to win or to continue to unbind myself regardless of the consequences to the system.

The cultural "system" in China insisted on a standard of beauty for a woman that was hurtful but the practice

thrived for centuries because systems demand constancy and homeostasis.  Many women with bound feet died when the Communists came to power because they were unable to work as hard as individuals without bound feet, so their food rations were reduced.  There are still elderly women in China, however, whose feet are just three inches long.  If it were possible in adulthood to reverse the process that began in childhood, imagine the joy and freedom these women could experience--the sheer delight of unimpeded movement. 

Fortunately, the human spirit is far more resilient than bound feet.  The broken and stunted bones of self can be reset and will grow again, once the restricting roles are removed.  The sole of our being doesn't have to remain stunted at just three inches, the potential for growth and transformation is unlimited when we are unbound.  So, I'm stretching my arches and wiggling my toes--freedom feels so good.  I think I'm gonna skip or dance around the garden of my growing selfhood.

"I Will Change Your Name"

One of my all-time favorite religious songs promises a transformative name-change as an indication of the work that God does in our spiritual formation.  Those of us who have experienced great trauma and loss are quite familiar with these names:  "Wounded," "Outcast," "Lonely" and "Afraid."  These "names" very aptly describe fallout from the devastation we have experienced.  And very few of us escape life without experiencing these descriptive conditions at least once.

I've thought a lot about my name and made the difficult decision to change it recently.  When I was just a young woman, I chose to take my husband's name upon our marriage.  I was happy to be "Mrs. Smith," and proud of the truth that my new name pointed to:  I was cherished, loved and connected to a man who had made sacred vows to me.  My new name reflected the monumental decision I had made to leave my father's household and join my husband in creating a new family, based on that original commitment.

When devastation and betrayal visited our household, I was too consumed with the drama of my trauma to think about any more changes.  And, I was frankly used to my married name--I had been "Mrs. Smith" far longer than I was "Miss Jones."  My married name also connected me to my adult children and provided a semblance of stability in a world that was precariously unstable.

When I read the transcripts of my ex-husband's bench trial, however, it became quite clear that the man I thought I had married, as a starry-eyed young woman, didn't exist and probably never existed.  The marriage I thought I had was based on a series of devastating lies and misrepresentations.  All of the cherished memories of my marriage that remained seemed tainted and inauthentic.  The name no longer felt comfortable to me.

I realize that my children's perspective is quite different.  The last name that we have shared is their birthright and aside from their father's criminal activity, it is a good name.  Their grandfather was the family genealogist and has traced their lineage back several centuries.  They were born into the "Smith" family and can proudly carry that name for as long as they choose to.  Their father was a good dad to them , loving them in all of the appropriate and good ways and none of the bad.  And the name they carry is based on an undeniable fact of relationship--he was and always will be their father.

But, I assumed that same name because of promises and vows that have been broken.  It is a name I chose based

on my love for a man who betrayed my trust and sacrificed what I thought we had on the altar of selfish sexual gratification.  The name brings pain to me and is no longer a name I am proud to carry because the relationship upon which it is based exists no longer, it it ever existed.

So, I am now legally "Ms. Jones" and I look forward to discovering just who this woman who resides in my body really is.  I abandoned her just as I abandoned her name, so I need to get reacquainted.  Marriage was far more than a legal or spiritual union for me--it involved laying aside my identity, not just my name, and assuming a new one.  Changing my name involves reclaiming me, maintaining my precious ties to my children, but finding me again.  It is another step in recovery and transformation; it reconciles my inner and outer realities and emboldens me to continue the quest for healing and authenticity.  My new, old name is based on a relationship that I have now with me.  I have changed my name.

Picking up the Pieces

I found her sitting on the dirty floor of her garage, surrounded by pieces of broken pottery.  The family dishes stored away for her future use had fallen, and almost all had broken.  As tears ran down her face, she pointed to the shards and pieces and said, "This is my entire childhood, and it is broken."  I knew what she meant and I knew her tears were about more than broken dishes.

Courtesy of Sweet Pea Productions

Much like her dishes, our lives have shattered and broken.  Two years later, and we are still finding the broken pieces and trying to figure out what to do with them.  Broken promises, broken dreams, broken family, broken holidays, broken relationships, broken memories . . . the list of things broken is huge and sometimes threatens to overwhelm the fragile peace we currently enjoy.  Our past is being reframed and our future has taken an extreme turn; sometimes it feels expansive and full of promise, at other times it appears limited and without hope.

Picking up the pieces after an immense tragedy that has been likened to a life quake, is time consuming and draining.  My daughter's treasured dishes represent family meals when life appeared more idyllic, laughter and tears around the dinner table with loved ones and friends.  They are a reminder of that time when life seemed simple and predictable, when her dad appeared to be a safe person she could trust and she didn't have to fear law enforcement or even think about police reports, court transcripts or protective custody.  To her, they represent innocence, trust, security and stability--all things broken by her dad's arrest and incarceration.

Courtesy of Sweet Pea Productions

Together we bent and reverently picked up the intact pieces of her family treasures.  We packed them away in a safer place.  Maybe we will look at flea markets and online to replace the dishes so that she has a complete set for her future.  Maybe she will decide she doesn't need that.  But the broken pieces we are saving.  Together we will learn how to craft something new from them.  They are no longer useful in their current state--but they are still beautiful.  Maybe a mosaic tray or trivet?  Or maybe something we have yet to imagine.  But the pieces of our shared past are not to be destroyed--but to be respected and treasured.  Maybe we will value them more because they are broken or maybe we will one day decide that they are no longer important enough to keep lugging around.  But for now, we simply bend and pick up the pieces.

I Knew I Wouldn't Be Believed

Over three decades ago, I made the decision to not call the police after my husband confessed his molestation of two children to me.  I made that decision out of fear for myself and my unborn child, this is true.  But a big part of my fear was that I would not be believed.  I feared that the police would not consider my accusation to be true since I had no proof, other than his confession.  I feared that they would be swayed by his academic credentials and his ability to spin abhorrent behavior into a believable and acceptable tale.  I have lived in shame over not reporting his abuse for far too long. But today I know on a far deeper level that my fears so long ago were founded in reality.

Yesterday in a courtroom many miles from where I now live, the judicial system essentially confirmed my fears.  While he was originally looking at 49 consecutive years in prison if convicted on all of the charges and while he was actually sentenced to 42 months in prison last month, the judge reduced his sentence to 180 days in the county jail.  With credit for time served, he will be released in two months.  After two years of scandal and a long, drawn-out criminal case, this is what it boils down to.  I am stunned beyond words.

When the detectives were raiding our house, they lectured me endlessly on the fact that pornography is not a victimless crime. My shame was compounded by these lectures.  Without denying the pain of child victims one iota, I needed the detectives and state's attorney's office to acknowledge that they were also dealing with victims that cold morning--the secondary victims.  And they were not kind, considerate or compassionate.  They put catching a big fish ahead of caring for those most impacted by the arrest and incarceration of the family breadwinner, as well as the media feeding frenzy they initiated and encouraged.

At every step, my engagement with the criminal justice system has been difficult.  I have sought to cooperate, told them everything I know about my ex-husband's behavior, including his confession of molestation.  I offered to testify and asked to present a victim's impact statement at his sentencing.  They denied that offer and request.  They knew about the molestation from the beginning and yet agreed to an incredible plea deal and then expressed anger at me for not cooperating with them!

The State's Attorney made a politically expedient decision to offer a plea deal and then to not allow my ex-husband's past perpetrating behavior to be introduced in court.  It was a political decision.  It wasn't about protecting the public or seeing that justice was served, it was all about re-election and public support for their ongoing effort to "fight crime."  The defense attorney announced at the hearing yesterday that he has been promoted to a judgeship.  He actually spoke with the press after the hearing and praised the judge for his sound decision--sounds like they are now best friends as well as colleagues.  Suppose that had anything to do with the judge's decision?

So the next time you are angry at the partner of a pedophile for not supporting the prosecution of her husband, remember my story.  We are shamed, sometimes prosecuted and often ridiculed for not reporting our partners and yet, when they are arrested with a preponderous amount of evidence, our voice is not valued--we are not believed.  We are not believed when our partners are given less than a smack on the wrist for their crimes.  We are not believed when family, friends and judges believe that the pedophile's carefully crafted persona reflects an accurate picture of their risk to society.  We are not believed when a judge can sit on the bench and actually insinuate that there are degrees to child exploitation.  We are often not consulted or kept in the loop by the prosecution and presumed to be guilty of complicity by a public that refuses to hear or value our voice.

If the crimes my ex-husband was accused of were egregious enough to warrant breaking down a door before dawn, holding innocent civilians/victims at gun point, announcing the home address of those victims to the media, then how in the world can this be a just decision?  How can I ever believe that my voice is valued and my story believed?  I was not a match for a master deceiver and manipulator three decades ago and I certainly am not a match for a judicial system run amok.  I was not and am not believed.

Dottie Sandusky: The Stereotypical Partner of a Pedophile

I heard the news bulletin on my lunch break today and gasped aloud.  Dottie Sandusky, the wife of convicted child molester and Penn State coach, Jerry Sandusky, is "standing by her man," according to her first television interview.  She believes he is innocent, defends behaviors she acknowledges are troubling to some, and blames the victims for railroading a great family man for monetary gain.

Dear God, have mercy.

She perfectly represents the stereotypical partner of a pedophile--a clueless, loyal but naive woman who believes in her man, no matter what the evidence shows.

Mrs. Sandusky does not indicate whether she had any suspicions that her husband was sexually involved with children prior to his arrest.  I think most partners of pedophiles will attest that they did not know a whole lot about the activities their spouse was involved in because pedophiles are extremely gifted deceivers.

She defends Jerry's practice of showering with kids but then goes on to say that she would be uncomfortable if an adult had behaved that way with her kids.  So why did she go along with it? Maybe her gut was trying to tell her something?  Or did she go along?  Did her protests fall on deaf ears?  Was she afraid to challenge him because of his power and status?  Or is she so calloused she didn't care as long as he left her kids and grandkids alone?

She indicates this has been hard on her family--some of her children have lost jobs, and friends have distanced themselves from them.  I think most partners of pedophiles who have had their silence broken can agree with this statement.  It is a lonely world we live in when we have been attached to a perpetrator.

Mrs. Sandusky is perfectly free to have her opinion and to express it whenever and wherever she wants.  It appears that she truly believes in the innocence of her incarcerated husband and if she was kept in the dark by her husband, as most partners are, her continued faith is somewhat understandable.  I can see how difficult it is to wrap your brain around the notion that the man you have spent decades with is a monster who never truly loved you.  I do get that, as do all spouses unfortunate enough to have married pedophiles.

I can totally accept these ideas as well:

• She did not know he was sexually interested in children.
• If she questioned his risque behavior, I can understand why she might have been duped by his well-rehearsed and "logical" explanations, his minimizing of the facts and his dismissal of her concerns.
• Her financial survival was tied to his success and that may have required secret-keeping.  It seems that a great many powerful men knew what Jerry Sandusky was doing and kept quiet about it.  She may have been covertly threatened or cowed into silence.  She is now in her "golden years" and may still be dependent upon his assets for survival.

What I cannot accept is her blaming the victims and refusing now to see what is plain to the rest of the world.  In my opinion, she was groomed by this man.  I appreciate that she has spent her entire adult life with him and that she genuinely loves him.  I know she has a powerful betrayal bond with him that has survived decades of questionable behavior on his part.  I understand these dynamics, I really do.

But for the rest of us wives or ex-wives of pedophiles, while we may not have known what our partner was doing, looking back we can see the warning signs.  We came to realize that we were groomed and deliberately deceived, and we can identify times when our gut told us that something was off, even though the perpetrator had such reasonable explanations for his behavior.  After our silence was broken or our innocent belief in the sanctity of our marriage destroyed by an arrest, disclosure or acusation, we began seeing what had been hidden.  Our eyes were oepned and we were devastated by what we saw.

As ex-wives of pedophiles . . .

We felt complicit, even though we know we were not.

We felt shame, even though we know it is not ours to carry.

We felt tremendous compassion for the victims and sorrow that such harm came to them at the hands of our partner.

We felt appalled by the discoveries that we have made about our partners, either through arrest, disclosure or accusation.

We felt haunted by the "what if's" though we know it is pointless.

We are not all Dottie Sandusky!  Some of us courageously acknowledged the truth and apologized to all known victims.  I hope the wider public will see the difference between us and her.

A Sentence

Two years ago today the front door of the home I shared with my husband of 32 years, and our young adult daughter, was broken down by the police executing a search warrant.  The day after the raid, the police returned and arrested my husband.  He spent 34 days in jail and bonded out with the aid of his sister, much to our surprise.

For two years he has wrangled with the criminal justice system.  For two years he has evaded, blamed, denied, minimized, rationalized, deceived and manipulated.  He has sought pity, pseudo-forgiveness, and has acted as the victim in this horrible situation that he brought on himself, his family, his friends and his employer.  For two years--two very long years.  But this week, time ran out on his delaying strategies.  This week, he stood before the judge and was sentenced to prison.

In English Grammar, I learned that a correctly constructed sentence must have a noun, a verb, maybe some adverbs and adjectives with some prepositions and conjunctions thrown in just to make things interesting.  Every sentence must end with appropriate punctuation.  I know what type of punctuation belongs at the end of this sentence, but what goes at the end of the sentence handed down in the courtroom this week?

A period indicates the end of a statement; an exclamation point adds an umph for emphasis and a question mark lets the reader know that the writer is asking a question.  I guess all three forms of punctuation belong at the end of the judge's sentence.

Certainly his sentence ends the statement of my ex's guilt.  He admitted guilt in a sweet plea deal; in exchange, the Prosecutor dropped six other charges.  So the statement of his guilt has been concluded.  And he was sentenced!  He did not get a slap on the wrist, as he expected.  He is facing a very difficult time in a maximum security prison.  He was facing 49 years had he been convicted on all 7 charges and he would have been required to serve the sentences consecutively rather than concurrently.  42 months is nothing compared to 49 years, but it is a sentence and is deserving of an exclamation point!

But the judge's sentence also begs a question mark as the appropriate punctuation.  A sentence?  Really??  How can 42 months possibly be enough time for the depth of degradation he had reached?  And now that he is imprisoned, what next?  This sentence does not mean that our family tragedy has ended; it has simply begun a new phase.  And we do not know how this phase will end either.  Lots of questions with no firm answers, and questions demand a question mark, right?

"When you look at the defendant, you would be completely justified in asking how someone like him ended up here," the Prosecutor said.  "Apparently, very few people knew the real Joe Smith."  As his wife, I spent 406 months married to Joe Smith and most of that time, I knew nothing about his secret.  So I would argue that no one knew the real Mr. Smith, absolutely no one.  406 vs. 42--not a real fair arrangement, is it?  Another question.

And what about the children he sexually offended, both actively through molestation and passively by using pictures of the worst day of their life for his own sexual gratification?  How much time is sufficient to wipe away the lifetime of pain to which his actions sentenced them?  Does enough time even exist to accomplish this?

So, we have ended the Sentence with a period, an exclamation point and questions marks.  If it sounds confusing, welcome to our world.  Somehow we will go on.  Somehow we will continue rebuilding, healing and growing.  Because his Sentence is not ours; the end of his criminal case is not the end of my story or that of my sweet little family.  His Sentence belongs to him and he alone will serve it.