The F--- Word

When we knew we would be adopting an older child, we joked about what it would be like the first time our child dropped the F-bomb. We knew its appearance was inevitable. I always hoped that I would handle it rather nonchalantly, primarily because I have dropped my fair share.

It happened at approximately 6:30...and then again at 6:30:27...and again at 6:30:35. And it kept happening for the next 30 minutes or so, peppered with some other fine profane specimens.

And you know what? It was cathartic. I have never been more relaxed...more focused...more in love with my son...even if he did call me a crazy f***ing white b**** who....well, you get the idea.

I won't lie either. I brought it out of him. It NEEDED to come out of him. I am no stranger to anger. I held mine in for years and it almost killed me...literally...but that's another post. So when I saw the warning signs, I knew something had to give. And sometimes, kids dealing with anger are so afraid of the result that they will stuff the emotion until it can't be controlled. And sometimes, they need a little nudge in a safe environment where they can throw caution to the wind and get it all out. That's the environment I provided...and it didn't take much.

So for 30 minutes (maybe more) I let him scream and yell and get it all out. Five months of suppressed street kid came spewing out of that cute little mouth. Five months of street kid that he had been trying to hide and deny.

And by the grace of God, I never yelled back. I just told him the truth when spit out a lie, which really just made him more angry. It went something like this...sans profanity (you're welcome):

You don't love me. Yes, I do.

You're gonna send me back. No, I'm not.

Quit lying to me. I'm not.

You're crazy. Yes, a little.

You keep saying you love me but you don't. Yes, I do.

And this went on and on, in circles. Until somehow we ended up in the bathroom, me hugging him from behind:

Get your hands off me.

I'm hugging you. I can't hug you and let go at the same time. Do you want me to let go?

No.

And when it was over, he told me he hated that he said all those things, and I told him I didn't. I told him that the 9-year-old street kid that swore at me was the real kid I fell in love with. I have always known he was in there and I'm glad he showed up. And I explained that I was surprised it took 5 months.

We shared some very poignant, Hollywood-esque moments after that. At one point, he actually wiped my tears and said, “Mama, you ARE strong enough.” I kid you not. And then we went and picked up his brothers, whom I had sent to the neighbor's house for obvious reasons, walking arm in arm, crying and laughing, across the moonlit lawn.

And then we all ate chocolate cake. Seriously. Because chocolate makes everything better.