A Night I’d Like to Forget

Last night was one of those nights I would rather not write about, but maybe reading about it will make someone else feel less alone.

In a bout of bedtime-induced fury, two of my kids bolted out the front door. My husband followed one, as I chased after the other, each running in opposite directions in a desperate attempt to reach them and bring them back to safety. There was screaming, kicking, punching, scratching, and words no parent ever wants to hear. And then—my mother’s antique china cabinet, filled with my wedding china from dear friends and family, was destroyed in one final moment of rage.

I was (and still am) devastated. Not just about the dishes—although I am very sad to have precious memories destroyed in a moment—but about the brokenness that led us here. About the way trauma shows up in children’s lives and in our homes. About how love and safety can be offered consistently for weeks and months and years, but pain still finds a way to boil over and spill out, destroying everything in its path.

There is a truth about foster and adoptive parenting that no one puts in a pamphlet: trauma doesn’t stay in the past. No, it barges into your living room, breaks the things you cherish, and leaves you standing among the wreckage wondering how you’ll do this again tomorrow.

But morning comes, and here we are. As painful as this is, these children are worth more than dishes and furniture. They are worth the fight to love them through the storm, even if the fight doesn’t turn out the way we dream and hope and pray. Especially when it doesn’t.

So, to the parent standing amidst broken glass or broken dreams right now—you’re not alone. I’m right here with you—in the middle.