Emily

Our first meeting with the wild child who would be our daughter was terrifying. She screeched and spit and ripped at our clothes, glasses, and anything else in reach.  The Social worker and several of the staff from the group home told us of her alcoholic mother and an abusive stepfather who inflicted a traumatic brain injury requiring a subsequent craniotomy at eighteen months, and of her extended hospitalization in a "vegetative state". She was anything but vegetative now.  She was frightening.
When it was time for her nap, they suggested I take her upstairs to her room, change her brief, and lay her down in her bed that was enclosed by a fence to keep her from escaping. I had no idea how to change a brief on an eight year old and fumbled my way through it like I was changing a diaper on a baby. Shock waves hit me as I discovered menstural blood, pubic hair, and other evidence of  precocious puberty.....a result of the head injury. She was watching me. I was trying to not to look as horrified as I felt. I kept smiling at her, chatting aimlessly.
Pulling the covers up to her chin, I sat on the edge of the bed, feeling emotionally exhausted and inept.    How can we possibly do this? What are we getting ourselves into?  Taking a deep breath, I pushed her hair back out of her face, my fingers finding the scarring from the burr holes and brain surgery.  I was dizzy and nauseous, but again, didn't want to let her see my emotions, my fear. Blowing out another ragged breath, I said into the air, " I wonder what you will call me when we take you home?" Half asleep, she looked at me with her crooked little eyes and said "Mama".
It was the only word that she spoke, but it sealed the deal for me. I knew that we would overcome whatever problems or obstacles lay before us, that we would go wherever the road took us.  I was, at that moment,  Emily's Mother.