Michelle was born with Fetal Alcohol Syndrome. Her biological mother was an alcoholic and drank heavily all day, every day, while she was pregnant. Sadly, with every swill of Wild Turkey and drunken fall her mother took, Michelle was forced to take it right along with her.
When Michelle’s father and I were married, this underdeveloped, droopy eyed, munchkin-looking little girl was 5 years old. I wanted to love her. I wanted to make up for her mother’s neglect and selfishness and allow her to thrive in a world of encouragement, love and understanding.
The symptoms of FAS are many, too long to list here, but I will list a few that were prevalent in Michelle:
- Growth retardation
- Central nervous system problems, including: mental retardation, hyperactivity, and delayed development of gross motor skills such as rolling over, sitting up, crawling and walking
- Decreased birth weight
- Delayed development of fine motor skills such as grasping objects with the thumb and index finger and transferring objects from one hand to the other
- Problems learning
Her physical appearance was not that of a normal 5-year-old, but all my husband saw was a beautiful brown-eyed Princess. He held her above all others, completely in love with his precious, first born baby girl, and I loved that about him.
I had a 2-year-old son from a previous relationship, and as we began to try to mesh our “blended” family together, it quickly became evident to me that my plans to provide a loving and supportive home were going to be far more difficult than I had anticipated.
Could this sweet, innocent and giggly little girl I had so eagerly taken under my wing be the manipulative, selfish, contemptuous, little brat revealing herself to me now? Was I misreading the situation, or did I have a shard of glass from the Snow Queen’s mirror in my eye?
She was an instigator and a master of the “set up.” Upon entering a room where she and my son were playing, I would always find some sort of ungodly mess to clean up; a cup of juice spilled all over the carpet, my son’s lunch being scarfed up by our family dog, book pages torn out and my son in tears. Without fail, Michelle would point the finger of blame at my son.
A pattern was unfolding before my eyes and there was no fairy tale trickery involved; Michelle was the evil step-sister and daughter, but who would ever believe me? She was 5 and “special,” dealing with a new mom, brother and home. Wasn’t this just the acting out phase?
I knew better. This was different; it was pre-meditated and vicious to the point I was now worried she would harm my son during one of her many violent tantrums. My husband, Doug, coddled and pampered Michelle either out of guilt, or perhaps because he just didn’t want to believe what I was telling him. My son was always the culprit because “he’s 2!”
Things escalated quickly, and Michelle upped her game in a big way. She actually shit on the kitchen floor. That’s where she made her first mistake. There was no possible way my son, still in diapers, took his diaper off, shit on the floor and re-diapered himself! This removed any doubt in my mind that my assessment of her mission was dead on.
She was a holy terror during the day while Doug was at work. Her diabolical and well-planned attacks on my sanity were working. I spent my days frazzled, screaming and coming apart at the seams. She was hell on wheels and only 5! When Doug came home from work, she would run to him, clutching his leg, greeting him with a smile and “I love you, Daddy!” in complete contradiction to the tormentor she had been all day. Often, her next comment would be “I love Mommy so much!” All I could think to myself watching and hearing this was…. you little bitch! Game on!
OMG! Was I really engaging in a war with a 5-year-old, FAS kid? Surely not.
Doug absolutely refused to believe my tales of daytime horrors, so we went to a family counselor. Things had gotten much worse, and I was ready to leave. This was not only affecting me but my son who was bearing witness to the undoing of his mother. Michelle had been to all the medical professionals and was nowhere near ready for school, so I was stuck at home with a manipulative monster. I relayed to the therapist during my part of the session that although only 5, I fully believed she knew exactly what she was doing.
Michelle was employing the old ‘divide and conquer’ method hoping Doug and I would divorce. She would then have daddy all to herself and could resume her rightful place as Queen in his life. In Michelle’s mind, I had taken her spot in her daddy’s life, and the role of Princess to my Queen was not acceptable to her.
Doug and Michelle each got one on one time with the therapist during our several sessions there. When our sixth session was about to conclude, she sent Michelle out to play in the waiting area and spoke to Doug and I very frankly. I braced myself fully expecting to be, at the very least, admonished for not only my horrible parenting skills but for thinking that a 5-year-old, FAS child could be this diabolical. The therapist looked at us and said, “Doug, Michelle is doing everything she can to end your marriage, and if you do not present a united front with your wife, it won’t be long before she succeeds.”
With the help and support of the therapist, I felt equipped with the necessary skills to stay a while longer to try and make things work. It continued to be an exhausting uphill battle. Doug felt “ganged up on” since the therapist was a woman and had dared to speak out against the Princess. There was no united front, nothing from him but disdain and resentment. With each specialist we saw, the prognosis got worse and Doug’s behavior toward her grew from coddling and babying to actually pitying her. The doctors all told us she would never ride a bike, never roller skate, never be able to do any sort of math or reading, never have normal relationships or friendships, never be able to live independently, and would always need special care.
I called BULLSHIT!
I took my rightful place as Queen on my throne and showed no mercy. Doug doled out enough of that for an entire kingdom. The following year she went to Kindergarten. She entered the hallowed halls of Crayola and Play-Doh and although a bit behind, seemed to enjoy cutting, pasting and gluing her way through her four-hour class.
It wasn’t long before she found these tasks tedious and decided to stretch her wings a bit. She became pushy and overbearing toward her classmates and would resort to throwing serious tantrums when she didn’t get her way. The other children didn’t follow her commands or manipulative directives and would just walk away from her, seeking out a fun activity or return to their familiar friends. She did her best with the teacher to play the “I’m disabled” card, and that didn’t fly either.
The only reason she knew this word, and what it meant, was through my husband. Doug had been desperately trying to get disability for Michelle, but she was so functional the application was denied. He despised me for this. Why he would rather see his daughter sitting at home with a drool bib on fulfilling the predictions of the doctor’s I have no clue, other than it would prove me wrong.
Fast forward to five years later – Michelle was 11, my older son was 7 and we now had a little boy who was 2. It was nothing short of a war zone in my home every single day.
I MADE her learn math. I MADE her read. I MADE her bathe herself. I MADE her brush her teeth. I MADE her dress herself. I MADE her do chores just as my 7-year-old did. Despite her age and capabilities, everything was a battle no matter how many times we went through it. She never tried to be cooperative and accept the fact that this basic, daily routine was getting done even it took all night, which it often did.
Doug and I no longer spoke. He thought I pushed her too hard and fought me every step of the way. She played Doug’s pity card well and realized she had accomplished her mission to divide and conquer. It was a house divided; Michelle and Doug against the evil step-mother and “the boys.” I had to face the harsh reality that my husband was never going to support my efforts to see Michelle reach her full potential. They say to choose your battles in life and I only had the strength to fight one. I chose to fight for Michelle because in the end, I knew she and I would both win.
She was in Special Ed and did fairly well due to my diligent tutoring/torture sessions. It was a great relief to have her out of the house and learning in an environment by teachers who were not so easily manipulated. At home, once her chores were done and the screaming was over, I took her out and taught her how to ride a bike, swim, roller skate, bowl and so many other activities all the other children in the neighborhood participated in. All of these accomplishments were hers, but none came without her hitting, biting, scratching, spitting, cursing, fighting and hating me all the way.
In the end:
- Michelle graduated High School and landed her first job at Roy Rogers.
- Her next job was in the US Treasury Department sorting mail. She had full benefits.
- She had her own checking account that she maintained on her own.
- She taught herself how to navigate the bus and Metro system to get to work and back.
- She learned how to ice skate and won several medals in the Special Olympic Games.
- She now lives in an apartment in Colorado, a place she had always dreamed of going.
- She has two volunteer jobs, one in a nursing home and one at an animal shelter
- She has a cat named Chloe.
- She still takes care of her personal finances but has a financial custodian that manages her inheritance from her father’s death (He died in 2006 from cirrhosis of the liver from years of alcohol abuse).
- She has many friends.
- She is engaged to be married.
- She is very happy.
It doesn’t bother me that she never speaks to me or has never thanked me for all I did to help her become the person she is today. I knew soon after our lives intersected that my role was not to “mother” her or for her to love me. My role was to teach her to believe she could accomplish anything she set her mind to. It was about her becoming a person capable of love and being loved, a person who understands that the world does not revolve around her and that relationships are give and take.
So sorry, I’m not sorry.
She is 37 now. My boys hear from her occasionally but remain distant and a bit resentful of all she put me and our entire family through. I tell them it was my choice, but like me, they know she didn’t have to make it so hard on herself and everyone else in the family. She did know better. She did it to win her throne back, but it wasn’t her time or place to rule.
Michelle will never understand the sacrifices that were made not only by me but my son’s to push her to become the person she is today. She will never appreciate all the long hours dedicated to building her confidence and developing her problem solving skills. She will never fully embrace the gift given to her by her step brothers and mother; the gift of time. Time they had to give up with me so that I could work with her each and every night instead of reading to them or taking them out for an ice cream cone. Each milestone she met came with a price that the rest of us had to pay.
I do not regret fighting for her–or as she perceives it, fighting with her. I do regret my boys having to give up a large piece of their mom for her to succeed. There is still anger and resentment on their part now that they are all grown but they understand why I did what I did. She has now taken her place sitting as Queen on her own throne. She lives in a lovely town in the place she always dreamed of going, the heavenly Rocky Mountains of Colorado. She may hate me but I can say she is definitely loving life.
At this point in her life, I believe that she is fully aware of the sacrifices we all made on her behalf but refuses to acknowledge them. I am sure I spent an abundance of time teaching her the lesson of humility and the importance of saying thank you. But she has never uttered the words thank you–thank all for caring enough about me to help me become the person I am today.
For that, she should be sorry.
About the author: Mary Mclaurine writes the blog The Heart of a Sassy Lassie.