The glass child.
I should have known there was a term for this.
My child with support and advocacy needs would need some extra special attention because the world was overwhelming his nervous system and then I would wrap everything I knew to do around him, up to and including new professionals, dietary changes, new environments/schools, whatever it took. I am a person who makes things happen, after all.
And each time, just as things seemed to be settling . . .
Then came the middle-of-the-night guilt—those wake-ups that hit deep.
Because MY glass child (sibling of a child with higher support needs whose needs become somewhat invisible) was very good at making sure he stayed out of the way when his brother’s need would increase. Granted, he came into this world naturally inclined to handle his emotions privately, but I was hyper-aware of making sure he NOT get lost in all of this.
Imagine having a therapist mom when you have this predisposition paired with this environment! I checked in—a lot. Even in the middle of my other child’s dysregulation, I would run to check on my “glass child” multiple times because I just needed him to know that I was thinking of him as well even if I couldn’t focus on him. I talked him through why we were having to pull focus, or why we were making the decisions we were making. I tried assuring him when things were escalated, because he always thrived in calm. I needed dysregulation to feel like a passing storm—not the household weather report.
Mostly, though, he would shut his door and check out in a screen, and nothing I could do truly felt like enough. I knew regulation was critical and had to pull the focus in that direction!
I tried getting him into therapy multiple times just because I was certain this was a challenging (dare I say traumatizing? It breaks my heart too, for sure) environment. *I* was in therapy. My other son was. We did family therapy intermittently. But again, my youngest was private. I still don’t know if I pushed too hard or not hard enough, but in the end we honored his preferred processing as long as he was doing “something” toward his wellbeing. Good friends were certainly critical.
Our path was full of ups and downs—moments I was convinced we were doing our best by both children and moments I mourned the ideal childhood I wanted to provide both my children (as opposed to what was realistic).
As I watch my glass baby grow up, I am certain of several things:
- We gave him language and safety in expressing himself—including an ability to cry bullshit when we were falling short.
- We gave him opportunities.
- There is no doubt his childhood could and should have been easier AND he always knew he was loved and protected, ESPECIALLY during the harder moments.
- As I read his college essays, I know this childhood was formative, and that he drew empathy for others from it as well as a sense of feeling close to us. Whew.
- He WILL have things to work through, but as a therapist who hears many stories, don’t we all?
- We share LOTS of hugs and giggles and experiences as a family, and I am so proud of who both of my children have become as a result of working through their individual challenges with what life handed them. As Garth says, “Life is not tried, it is merely survived, if you’re standing outside the fire.”
- We were perfectly imperfect—but always a loving unit. I have to believe it’s because of both the challenges and consistently showing up to work our way to repair. We are a family who is imperfect but willing to stay in the game with each other.