It starts out innocent enough ...
A little boy about the same age as your two daughters, moves in across the street. Your daughters welcome the new friend to the neighborhood ... someone excitingly new with whom to play ... who doesn't live so far away that a parent is needed to shuttle them to and fro.
A friendship develops between your daughters and this little boy. A really cool friendship that involves video games on a big screen TV, candy, soda, and all the foods that your daughters don't get to eat at home because they're processed foods with loads of chemicals and other yucky stuff.
The boy's Dad is pretty cool too. He hands out money.
Your daughters are children of a broken relationship; their father left when they were quite small. Your oldest daughter starves for attention from a "Daddy figure". Their father rarely spends any actual time with them ... his life without children takes precedence over his generous visitation rights.
The girls' Mother has remarried, but with a total of 5 children in the newly-formed family, Dad's attention is at a premium ... there is no lack of love, but there IS competition for his attention with those children who were his to begin with.
Your daughters begin spending oodles of their free time over at the new friend's house ... having dinner, playing games, drinking soda, and coming home with a dollar every now and again so they can go buy cheap toys at the local drugstore.
A month passes ... you eventually discover the name of the boy's Dad. You also discover that the little boy is only there on weekends; he lives with his Mother during the week.
Odd ... since your daughters are over at the house almost every day.
As a parent, a small alert pops off in your head ... so you ask your daughters why they go over when the little boy is not there. And you are told that there are video games on a big screen TV that they don't have to share with 3 other kids, there's candy and soda and ice cream, there's dinner with things they don't eat at home because their family is mainly vegetarian ... and there's a dollar for each of them whenever they ask for one.
Understanding that your older daughter is starving for Dad-attention and considering that the boy's Dad maybe misses having his son with him during the week, enjoys having children in the house, you don't give it a second thought ... you give it the benefit of the doubt.
Until your older daughter becomes moody ... and quiet ... and sullen.
This last Friday, my younger daughter comes home crying ... her sister had pushed her out into the crosswalk, in front of a moving car, with the words "how would you like to die" ringing in her ears.
On Monday, five dollars shows up, clenched in the fist of an angry girl. A jealous little sister spills the beans to my husband.
When asked about it, my older daughter tells him that the little boy's Dad gave it to her. When asked "why?", my husband is met with silence ... pressing the question is followed by a storming through the house, slamming doors in her wake ... awaking me from a nap.
Her sister comes barreling in the bedroom ... and I am told about the five dollars and it was a trade with the little boy's Dad for a $20.
$20?!?!?! Where did $20 come from???
My stomach sinks ... I head off to find answers.
Before going into my daughter's room, I have two stories from two different perspectives. I enter her room, sit down on the bed, and quietly ask about the $20.
I am told that the boy's Dad had given it to her. I explain that $20 is a lot of money ... that I didn't quite believe the story that she was trying to tell me. She gets quiet.
Getting nowhere fast, I ask about the five ... and am told that the boy's Dad gave her the five when she gave back the $20. Gave back??? That indicates that the money was stolen.
Still meeting sullen silence, I explain that so far, there were three stories ... and none of them matched. With the details that I knew, I gave her MY story: she was playing over at the boy's house and sees a wallet on the coffee table or kitchen counter with money in it. She takes the money, thinking he won't miss it because there are so many in there and he's always giving her money, anyway. Her sister finds out and threatens to tell Mom, for which she's pushed out into the crosswalk, with a threat that if she tells Mom, she will die. The magnitude of stealing money eats at her over the weekend, causing tummy aches and general misery. On Monday, she decides to give it back ... which she does, asking for five dollars in return.
I finish my version of the story, letting her know that she will be ungrounded from her room when she decides to tell me the TRUE story. I take the five dollars from her, explaining that keeping the five was the same as when she stole the $20. Half an hour later, she comes to me, ready to tell me her story.
What I guessed to have happened was pretty darned close ... expect for one minor detail: the wallet was in his closet. When I ask "what closet", I am told "his bedroom closet". When I ask what she was doing in his bedroom, I am quietly told that he carried her there to tickle her ... that he did this more than just once.
With a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, I realize that you have to tread very carefully with questions at this point ... remaining calm at all costs, or you run the risk of scaring the child into a mentally locked door from which no answers or memories ever return.
Reassuring her that she is loved and that Mommy will not get angry at her story, I continue with asking her if he ever did anything that made her feel either uncomfortable or "bad" inside. I am told that he once answered the door wearing only shorts, no underwear, with his "privates" hanging out ... and that she ran in fear. She tells me that he has only tickled her ... nothing more.
And with a breaking heart, I wrap her up in my arms and simply hold her ... holding back tears and sadness and the surfacing of a few memories of my own.
She is okay. We were able to stop something before it got out of hand and did terrible damage.
I am another story ... one that I cannot remember ... yet.
A handful of memories of my life before the age of 6, when my family moved to Washington. A dusty memory from about the age of 4, showering with my Dad, seeing his "privates". A disturbing memory from about the age of 10: on vacation at my Aunt & Uncle's house, sleeping in my cousin's room on the floor in sleeping bags, waking up both of my cousins with the words "please don't hurt me, Daddy" uttered from a deep sleep.
That's it ... no other memories. Just an overwhelming, heart-breaking sadness that allows me to relate to my 8 year old daughter on a level I never knew I had.
Monday ends with her a happier child ... the weight of her secret is now off of her shoulders.
Tuesday, following a hunch, I discover that the little boy's Dad was convicted in 1993 for 1st degree sexual abuse and again in 1994 for third degree rape. The National Registry for Sexual Offenders does not indicate if these convictions involved children.
With this information, my husband & I walk over to his house with an apology for my daughter stealing the $20 and a return of the five dollars. He brushes it off and says that "it's no big deal". I then give him the explanation that our children will never be allowed over at his house. Ever. He is shocked. Protests. I explain that I did not approve of his behavior toward the children. His response of "but ... I fed them ... and let them play video games ... and gave them money ... and ..." was met with my response that I appreciated those particular things that he did for the girls ... but that his taking of my daughter into his bedroom for the purpose of tickling was inappropriate behavior and not tolerated. Ever.
No remorse. No apology. Just a "fine" and a closing of the door as we walked away.
We've slain the dragons found in one little girl's world ... it's time to find the others and flush them out.
And they'll either surface the easy way ... or the hard way.
Either way, their time for hiding is over ... it's time for the fears to be faced and released ...
so I can move forward in a healthier frame of mind.
