I really did never expect to be a mother. I failed my eldest daughter so terribly that I should have had myself spayed right then and there after she was born, but back then, the brilliant doctors in Texas wouldn't do that for a woman who was under 25.
When I had my eldest son, my life was a mess. His father is a full on, text book psychopath. I mean, seriously, out of Hares 21 characteristics of a psychopathic personality that lend themselves to being a serial killer, he met 13 of them. I still consider myself lucky to be alive and after the state investigated him to see if they could get me some child support and they determined that he was enough of a threat to not pursue for our safety, I guess my instincts were spot on. Soo, yet another child I failed.
My youngest three have a domestic abuser for a father. I consider him my atonement. I spent 10 years dealing with him and his tender mercies and he is still my burden to bear because I am forever connected to him because of my kids. I love my children and I miss my sons with a pain that cannot be expressed, though I have been told it can be seen. Nobody really understands it, but talking to them often makes the agony worse, especially when they cry and tell me how much they miss me. When Fergus died, not only did that rip my heart to pieces, but knowing that my children hurt and I couldn't comfort them made it all the worse.
My baby girl is my solace. I bought her way out of Arizona and she is my sunshine. I do not understand how she has come to rule my world so totally, but she is the wheel that turns us all and for once I dont mind it.
She is my miracle child, born sickly and early and the fact that we almost died together may have had something to do with it, in fact I had to face my greatest phobia to have her. I had to face being cut open with a scalpel . Yeah, my heart rate was through the roof, and being in that delivery room alone was terrifying because I didn't know what was going to happen if I died and she was alone, but I knew that I had to do it for her. Being strapped down and knowing they were going to cut me...I still shudder when I see that scar. Its one of the few that im proud of though, because it brought me her. I remember her first cries that sounded like a sick kitten, and how tiny she was. I was too sick to hold her for long, and we were separated for a few days, but I dreamed about her and I knew she was going to be something.
I dont know if its because shes the baby or because shes just her, but I try harder for her. I dont want to be like my parents. I try to always encourage and be positive and never tease about looks or anything. Shes beautiful with her long, curly, blonde hair that hangs to her butt and her big blue eyes and her dimples. She is the "Smart one" and the "Pretty One" all rolled into one, but I dont play favorites. She knows I adore her big brother just as much and we both spoil him too. We work at being a family, though we are broken and missing parts. She tries hard to make up for her brothers being gone by always talking about them and drawing pictures for me and reminding me that life is going on around us so I dont wallow in the misery of missing them and feeling like I have failed.
She never lets me feel that too long. She drags me along into her odd little world of monkeys and Harry Potter and her love of the odd little rock star, and she forces me to be enthusiastic about things that I would probably have put aside. She brings colors into my life and smiles and laughter and a joyful insanity. I have wallowed while she has been gone. Stuck a bit in my own head, though I did get out and go have coffee with a friend to try and chase away the darkness, but the 1st night with her gone, when my son was gone as well, spending the night at a friends house, I was reminded of the Douglas Adams saying, " I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I needed to be."
She will be home today with hopefully her Jackson in tow. I am planning to spend this evening celebrating by having a ,"Monkey tea Party" with her and over-indulging the hell out of her, just to let her know that she is loved, so she never for one second doubts that she is loved beyond all reason.
My son leaves next week and that will be yet another week of stress for me. Its a control thing I am afraid. Hes a teen and reckless, so I worry. Hes trying to show his independence and strength, but he is still my baby. We spoke of his father last night, and I finally told him everything. It was hard to see him grasp the fact that he will never have a relationship with a father figure. He wants that soo badly, someone to talk to, to be the guide and role model that all boys need to have in their lives, but when I explained everything, he just nodded and said,"I might as well consider him dead, that's fine lots of men grow up without fathers, ill just deal, but when I have kids, I am damn sure going to be there for them. " I wish you were here for him Rog, I tell him about you all the time, and the stories I think help. Knowing that there were good men who were part of his family makes him proud, and I wish you could have met him. Hes a handsome boy. He resembles you from when you were young, with the strong jaw and high cheek bones. Hes got those damn long eye lashes that boys seem to get and women wish they had. He gets looks all the time and often uses his looks to charm his way into things, and that scares the hell out of me, but I hope he learns to use them for good and not evil.
He dotes on his baby sister, even though they bicker as siblings tend to do. He is fiercely protective her her, and he acts as a father figure to her quite often. He attends her plays with me, making sure pictures and video get taken. He is attending the 100 Monkeys concert with us again in August, even though he really would prefer not to, because he wants to protect his baby sister from rampaging fan girls and he knows he will probably end up having to put her on his shoulders so she can see. He is a good big brother, even if he does steal her monkey and rub it in his armpits or drawers, just to hear her shriek in horror. He risks bodily injury by calling her favorite young rock star, "short" just to see her get mad and defensive so he can tease her to the point of door slamming and yelling and attacking, as a form of entertainment when there is nothing else to do, just so she knows he is paying attention.
Being a parent is not something I ever intended to do. I was supposed to wander through this life in a reckless and self-destructive manner, living the life of an artist and poet and burning out early and dramatically. My kids saved me, though I dont know why.
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