Can we pretend that my previous post, of a mere few days ago, regarding the heinous and absent nature of Eva's father didn't really happen?
Not that I completely want to eat my words, but maybe I'll just nibble on them a little. Around the edges. Take a bit off the top.
Let's move back a bit - back to the morning after I wrote that blog post. I woke up, as I do every morning, with a sweet little 3 year old munchkin climbing sleepily into bed with me. While all projections of co-sleeping with a toddler are wildly over-glamorized and even, I dare say, ridiculous, the precious early morning moments when your child 'sneaks' into bed, both of you sleepy and content, are nothing short of magnificent. So, it is safe to say that my morning-after started off well. I proceeded to call a good, very good, friend of mine who is in a similar life situation that I am. A single mother with heaping mounds of wisdom, patience and fortitude. She is the picture of everything I want to be as a mother and woman. Incredible, just incredible. We'll call her Ms. T.
Well, Ms. T is always there for me when I call frantic and in dire need of advice. She speaks words that I already know, or that I should already know, but makes sense of it all in practical terms. Her daughter's father is the only man I know who contests Evas's father for stupidity and a-hole-ness (not a word, I know, I gotta keep this G rated). And yet, somehow, Ms. T is able to take all of the difficulty that 'he' has placed in their lives and makes the best of it. And I don't say that lightly. I mean, she makes the ABSOLUTE best out of a terrible situation. Perhaps even better than some co-parents.
For what does she give her daughter? Trust. Faith. Acceptance. Validation. Opportunities for growing, thinking, comprehending.
Ahhh, what more would I want for my Eva?
And that Ms. T, why, she had the audacity to suggest that my solution be thus:
Eva, sobbing : "I want my daaaaddy!"
Me: "Ok, sweetheart, would you like to call him on the phone?"
Wait, what? What?! Nonono, that can't be right. She must not understand. He. Is. Awful. Unworthy. Slime. Poison.
But wait, could it be that perhaps the relationship of Spencer+Nicole might have a different equation than Spencer+Eva? Maybe, just maybe, by not allowing my daughter to express and feel validation in a basic desire that stems from her 3 year old heart - the simple desire to have her daddy (and no, not Spencer - the person; her daddy - the concept of fatherly love) - I am the one hurting her?
Wow. That was a biggie.
And only Ms. T could have said it in a way that gave me courage and strength, not humiliation and despair. She really is amazing, isn't she? I know. We should all have friends like her. Seriously.
And so, I called Him. Ya, I did. No, serious. On the phone. Spontaneously. I was Nicolebobpowerpants - strong and confident woman IN - EFFING - CHARGE. It felt good. I quit caring about the games he plays, the constant chess board that I find myself in whenever we converse, and I opened up to his sensibilities - which I'm not really sure are there, but I hope are - as a human being and as Eva's biological father. I hope, sincerely, desperately hope, that somewhere in his DNA is the capability to be a passable father figure to Eva, if only for her sake. While the conversation was left on a positive note, I still remain skeptical. But that's okay, I think. That's my job. As long as it doesn't interfere with Eva's budding relationship with her father. As long as I'm only the referee on the sidelines, watching for incongruities and fouls, calling penalties where needed and taking Eva to the sidelines for encouragement, direction and advice. If he breaks her heart? Yes, that will be awful. I will hate him all the more. But HE will do it. Not I. And I can try to make the best of that situation and help it be a learning experience for her.
And that's the worst case scenario. What's the best? Somehow he pulls the mediocre-father card out of his butt somewhere and fosters a caring relationship with her? And I wouldn't want that? I'd be a selfish lunatic if I said no.
So yes, Eva now insists on sleeping with her 'Daddy picture' - a picture of Spencer I put in a frame for her. I pry it out of her chubby grasp every night, her breath steaming the glass, and I place it on her bedside table. I cry a little, my heart breaks a little, I hate it a little. No, a lot. I hate it a lot. But it makes her happy, it gives her peace. I like the thought of my daughter being happy and peaceful. So I take a deep breath, I try not to bash the photo into the wall, and I place it gently down. She will find it in the morning, no doubt, and will coo lovingly, "Aww, my daddy picture... I love you, Daddy." I'll cringe at that one, too. But for now, she'll be happy and peaceful.
What more could I want?
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
Easter Bunny. Tooth Fairy. Santa. Daddy.
What do these 4 things have in common?
Eventually my daughter will stop believing in them - in things she can't see.
I try to keep my blog clean and void of emotional rantings which contain little purpose but to cry out for much needed affirmation, encouragement.... perhaps denial that the things that scare me the very most are true. I try to act as though I am unfazed by the absenteeism of Eva's father, even grateful for it. I try to keep myself from breaking down as I hold my 3 year old while she cries for her Daddy. I try not to get upset. I try not to become bitter. I try not to hate men. It is not easy, and it's been getting harder.
Eva's getting older - physically and mentally. She is so clever, too clever. At times I shake my head at the impossibility of the job I have in front of me as her mother. I don't have the skills, the experience, the knowledge, the right words. Most nights I'm left wondering what the hell I'm doing, how it is I'm going to raise this child - by myself - to become a successful human being.
How can I shield her - protect her - take the bullet for her?
How can I?
For what is hurting her, causing her to cry so bitterly it would break any heart that witnessed it, is fused to her very existence. I cannot change the past any more than I can change her DNA. I cannot make her father come back to her. I cannot make him want to be with her. I cannot take that pain away.
For the most part, when I express these concerns to others - perhaps you, out there, have counseled me in this fashion at some point, and do not take offense by my following words for I know that all your intents and purposes was to help, never harm - but the hardest thing to hear when I earnestly need an ear to pour my worries into, is that everything will 'work out' or 'be ok' or 'she'll be fine without him'. I understand the intention is to make me feel better, but I feel as though I could just scream, "It will not be ok, because it will not go away! What is your definition of 'fine'?!"
I realize my daughter will not cease to exist from wanting her father - yet the tears she cries, the desires she confesses - they make ME want to cease to exist. And her deepest desires are so innocent, so pure, so simple and meager that the fact that they will not be granted is enough to case a great discomfort in my gut. And I have. no. power. "I want him (my daddy) to live with me." "WHY can't he read my a bedtime story?" "I want him to love me!" "Is ____ going to be my Daddy, please?"
I've been perusing articles on the internet for guidance. There are numerous other single mothers out there, all who are yearning for answers to the same questions that I am. 'How do I explain to my daughter that he dad doesn't want to see her?' 'My Baby's daddy doesn't want to see her! What do I tell her?' Absent Father: Advice for Single Mothers Without Dad. I read these articles rapid-fire quick, waiting for the answer to spell itself out on the screen - complete with angelic hosts of angels and bold, highlighted, 100 type-size print - and tell me exactly what to do. The formula. The fix. The tried and true, proven blueprint that will make, as others have claimed, 'this all be ok.'
But alas, it is not so. Because I can only control MY actions. I cannot control his. I cannot even control hers - she will feel this in every capacity that she herself decides - I can only guide her through it. At times I feel as though I could force him into her life, hold him at gun-point-head-under-water-noose-around-his-neck while he pretends to be a 'good', present father figure and proves to her that not all men are deadbeats and she should believe in the goodness of the sex beyond the existence of a few, albeit colossal, assholes. Other times I wish to 'black bag' him - just get rid of him and claim immaculate conception. She'd buy it, right? Well, maybe for a few years.
I've tried the 'our family is different and that's okay' approach; as well as the 'you may not have a daddy but you have a mommy/papa/nana/uncle/auntie who loves you like crazy, so it'll be okay'. I had high hopes. I put such weight into the antidote-like nature of those words. But wait - hey - no fair - why is she still crying?
It's nights like tonight that I realize that no words I utter can replace the hole he has left.
And that, sadly, is that. No rainbow after the storm, no silver lining - it really will suck. In this vein at least. I suppose my sights should be set on uplifting other aspects of her life that I CAN control, for in this regard, there is no 'okay'.
Eventually my daughter will stop believing in them - in things she can't see.
I try to keep my blog clean and void of emotional rantings which contain little purpose but to cry out for much needed affirmation, encouragement.... perhaps denial that the things that scare me the very most are true. I try to act as though I am unfazed by the absenteeism of Eva's father, even grateful for it. I try to keep myself from breaking down as I hold my 3 year old while she cries for her Daddy. I try not to get upset. I try not to become bitter. I try not to hate men. It is not easy, and it's been getting harder.
Eva's getting older - physically and mentally. She is so clever, too clever. At times I shake my head at the impossibility of the job I have in front of me as her mother. I don't have the skills, the experience, the knowledge, the right words. Most nights I'm left wondering what the hell I'm doing, how it is I'm going to raise this child - by myself - to become a successful human being.
How can I shield her - protect her - take the bullet for her?
How can I?
For what is hurting her, causing her to cry so bitterly it would break any heart that witnessed it, is fused to her very existence. I cannot change the past any more than I can change her DNA. I cannot make her father come back to her. I cannot make him want to be with her. I cannot take that pain away.
For the most part, when I express these concerns to others - perhaps you, out there, have counseled me in this fashion at some point, and do not take offense by my following words for I know that all your intents and purposes was to help, never harm - but the hardest thing to hear when I earnestly need an ear to pour my worries into, is that everything will 'work out' or 'be ok' or 'she'll be fine without him'. I understand the intention is to make me feel better, but I feel as though I could just scream, "It will not be ok, because it will not go away! What is your definition of 'fine'?!"
I realize my daughter will not cease to exist from wanting her father - yet the tears she cries, the desires she confesses - they make ME want to cease to exist. And her deepest desires are so innocent, so pure, so simple and meager that the fact that they will not be granted is enough to case a great discomfort in my gut. And I have. no. power. "I want him (my daddy) to live with me." "WHY can't he read my a bedtime story?" "I want him to love me!" "Is ____ going to be my Daddy, please?"
I've been perusing articles on the internet for guidance. There are numerous other single mothers out there, all who are yearning for answers to the same questions that I am. 'How do I explain to my daughter that he dad doesn't want to see her?' 'My Baby's daddy doesn't want to see her! What do I tell her?' Absent Father: Advice for Single Mothers Without Dad. I read these articles rapid-fire quick, waiting for the answer to spell itself out on the screen - complete with angelic hosts of angels and bold, highlighted, 100 type-size print - and tell me exactly what to do. The formula. The fix. The tried and true, proven blueprint that will make, as others have claimed, 'this all be ok.'
But alas, it is not so. Because I can only control MY actions. I cannot control his. I cannot even control hers - she will feel this in every capacity that she herself decides - I can only guide her through it. At times I feel as though I could force him into her life, hold him at gun-point-head-under-water-noose-around-his-neck while he pretends to be a 'good', present father figure and proves to her that not all men are deadbeats and she should believe in the goodness of the sex beyond the existence of a few, albeit colossal, assholes. Other times I wish to 'black bag' him - just get rid of him and claim immaculate conception. She'd buy it, right? Well, maybe for a few years.
I've tried the 'our family is different and that's okay' approach; as well as the 'you may not have a daddy but you have a mommy/papa/nana/uncle/auntie who loves you like crazy, so it'll be okay'. I had high hopes. I put such weight into the antidote-like nature of those words. But wait - hey - no fair - why is she still crying?
It's nights like tonight that I realize that no words I utter can replace the hole he has left.
And that, sadly, is that. No rainbow after the storm, no silver lining - it really will suck. In this vein at least. I suppose my sights should be set on uplifting other aspects of her life that I CAN control, for in this regard, there is no 'okay'.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Dumpster Days
Sometimes I'm overcome with the suffocating feeling that I don't want to be a mom anymore.
YES, I love my child more than myself.
NO, I would never realistically give her up (but dream about it? Pssh, don't get me started on the tantalization!)
Those are the main truths in my life that give me reason to live. And yes, as paradox's go, this one's a doozy. But there are moments, somewhat small, where I simultaneously love my child and loathe being her mother. There are moments when we are in the middle of a full fledged, all out, locked horns, neither backing down battlefront, WWIV in the making (I described WWIII in a prior post when Eva was on the verge of her 2nd birthday - coincidence now that WWIV is waged a mere days before her 3rd birthday? I think not...) - it is in these moments that my head pounds, my heart squeezes out beat after beat, my stomach clenches, my bowels loosen and I long for the blissful days of my youth when far less trivial matters bothered my pretty little head.
Sigh... the days of sleeping in till 10:00 a.m., 11 even! with ne'er a crying toddler to console in the room next over.
Ahhh... the days when breakfast, lunch and dinner were eaten at MY schedule, at MY leisure, and WITHOUT simultaneously forcing a pink plastic spoon through the teeth of a young child.
Oh, such beatific moments when an Oreo cookie could be consumed, if not a dozen, without having to hide its presence lest having to share said cookie with a disgruntled toddler.
Alas, but to be able to surf through Pinterest, Facebook, Youtube, Grooveshark, Twitter!! with no nagging feelings of guilt nor pleas of "Is it MY turn?! Is it MY turn?!" ringing aloud ever 2.5 seconds.
Long gone are the days when car rides were spontaneous, short (due to lack of potty breaks, leg stretches and melt downs), and errands run around town didn't consist of lugging a 35lb heavy weight in and out and in and out of car seat after store after car seat after store who tries to eat, break, steal, touch and cry over every glittery item that catches their eye.
Such enraptured, effortless days were those! Where did they go? When can I get them back? Why did I ever knowingly cast them aside?
My wonderful sister in law, who is the fabulous mother to 2 darling children, proclaimed these days as "Dumpster Days." And boy-o did I ever jump on the band wagon with that one! Finally! A term that described these feelings adequately. Days when I might actually consider selling my daughter for a bag of Doritos and a Cherry Dr. Pepper. Days when you look at your child crying splayed out in the middle of the aisle at the grocery store with a line up of veteran mothers behind you and you wish you could say aloud to them "She's not MY kid - geez, what a spaz!" Am I a terrible mother? Am I a horrific human being?
I would dare to assume that any/all mothers out there, single mothers especially, have had days like this. If they claim not, they may be delusional/foolish/lying. Take your pick.So, with all that being said, it's a damn good thing that most mothers come with an innate, built in quality which ties us inexplicably to our offspring.
Otherwise, those Doritos would be miiiiiighty tempting.
YES, I love my child more than myself.
NO, I would never realistically give her up (but dream about it? Pssh, don't get me started on the tantalization!)
Those are the main truths in my life that give me reason to live. And yes, as paradox's go, this one's a doozy. But there are moments, somewhat small, where I simultaneously love my child and loathe being her mother. There are moments when we are in the middle of a full fledged, all out, locked horns, neither backing down battlefront, WWIV in the making (I described WWIII in a prior post when Eva was on the verge of her 2nd birthday - coincidence now that WWIV is waged a mere days before her 3rd birthday? I think not...) - it is in these moments that my head pounds, my heart squeezes out beat after beat, my stomach clenches, my bowels loosen and I long for the blissful days of my youth when far less trivial matters bothered my pretty little head.
Sigh... the days of sleeping in till 10:00 a.m., 11 even! with ne'er a crying toddler to console in the room next over.
Ahhh... the days when breakfast, lunch and dinner were eaten at MY schedule, at MY leisure, and WITHOUT simultaneously forcing a pink plastic spoon through the teeth of a young child.
Oh, such beatific moments when an Oreo cookie could be consumed, if not a dozen, without having to hide its presence lest having to share said cookie with a disgruntled toddler.
Alas, but to be able to surf through Pinterest, Facebook, Youtube, Grooveshark, Twitter!! with no nagging feelings of guilt nor pleas of "Is it MY turn?! Is it MY turn?!" ringing aloud ever 2.5 seconds.
Long gone are the days when car rides were spontaneous, short (due to lack of potty breaks, leg stretches and melt downs), and errands run around town didn't consist of lugging a 35lb heavy weight in and out and in and out of car seat after store after car seat after store who tries to eat, break, steal, touch and cry over every glittery item that catches their eye.
Such enraptured, effortless days were those! Where did they go? When can I get them back? Why did I ever knowingly cast them aside?
My wonderful sister in law, who is the fabulous mother to 2 darling children, proclaimed these days as "Dumpster Days." And boy-o did I ever jump on the band wagon with that one! Finally! A term that described these feelings adequately. Days when I might actually consider selling my daughter for a bag of Doritos and a Cherry Dr. Pepper. Days when you look at your child crying splayed out in the middle of the aisle at the grocery store with a line up of veteran mothers behind you and you wish you could say aloud to them "She's not MY kid - geez, what a spaz!" Am I a terrible mother? Am I a horrific human being?
I would dare to assume that any/all mothers out there, single mothers especially, have had days like this. If they claim not, they may be delusional/foolish/lying. Take your pick.So, with all that being said, it's a damn good thing that most mothers come with an innate, built in quality which ties us inexplicably to our offspring.
Otherwise, those Doritos would be miiiiiighty tempting.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Mama Bear Syndrome
No doubt all of us mother's have felt it. That surge of protectiveness that sweeps over us, flood like, when our baby cubs come near danger. Your son darting out in the street to chase a ball. You loose track of your children somewhere in Costco, and mild annoyance turns to panic when your attempts to find them turn up empty. An eerie looking man eyes up your daughter in the grocery store.
No doubt this instinct is ingrained deep into the psyche of every Mother throughout history. Amounts of this instinct may be highly variable, causing some mothers to tie their children to themselves through the use of furry-faced-back-pack-leashes, home schooling and fierce play mate matching, while others may feel the Internet and T.V. celebrities be the best babysitter and let their children run free in the supermarket. Regardless of how we rate the danger and how much attention we give it, we all have basic desires to protect our children physically, emotionally and mentally from danger.
But danger can take strange and uncanny forms. Forms that, in some lights, may not appear to be danger. For example, a father.
My apologies to anyone's sensibilities that may be offended by reading this, but my danger radar goes completely buck wild whenever "he" calls her. Raising her on my own for 3 years has made me sensitive to a fault, no doubt, about the men in her life- especially those who seek to label themselves as her daddyio. We've had a few interesting characters over the years (and secretly I sincerely hope not many more in future years) and they all have been left behind and forgotten quite easily (most easily by her, more often than not) - - except this one. He keeps lingering in the doorway like an unpleasant stray dog that you hate to shoo away but for the pity in his hang-dog expression of remorse. And he's actually related to your child. Okay, maybe that example got a tad convoluted.
The long and short of it? - - how I wish I could have a different sperm donor for my daughter!
Whoops - did I just say that out loud?
It's hard. Damn hard. Especially when I have the pleasure of having the oh-so-sensitive, perceptive, observant Eva as daughter. Here is the rough dialogue of our conversation tonight at bedtime:
Eva, crying into her hands.
Me: "Eva, what's wrong?"
Eva, won't look at me, cries harder.
Me: "Sweetie, what's the matter??"
Eventually, she calms down enough and I can make out the sobs.
Eva: "I. just. miss. my. father."
Me, hoping to just distract. "That's ok. Don't worry. Look at this story, isn't it funny?"
Eva, having none of it, continues to cry. : "Why doesn't he yove me?"
What?? Now, I'm crying too.
Eva: "I just want him to yive with me. I just want to see him."
Me, at a complete loss for words, just holding her in replace of the words that I can't find.
Finally, all I can calm her down with is this: "He does love you. You will see him."
And inside I am cursing something, him, fate, life, whatever brought me to this point - to this moment, here, where my 3 year old comprehends too much about feeling the loss of not having a father. And thinking that he better make my words come true, and do I trust him enough with such a fragile promise? How can I possibly place that small trust on the shoulders of someone who once betrayed a much greater trust placed in him? It flies in the face of logic!
Please don't shake your head, roll your eyes, and sigh "drama queen!" up to the heavens. The simplest of relationships that the lions share of you out there, not all, but the lions share of you, take forgranted every day is the one that my daughter cries for, at age 3, and the one that I can NEVER give her. You mothers out here, who give your babies their biological father? Do you understand how I yearn for that, simplest and most basic of relationships for my daughter? When your children cry for their father, as Eva did tonight, do you call out to your husband in the other room and say merely: "She wants you tonight, honey!" How many nights have I wished to do just that? Say those words - and have someone actually come!
Not with "him", of course. I don't long for "him". More like I long for what I "thought" I had. What I "thought" I was giving Eva when I became pregnant with her - in fact, what I didn't even realize could be TAKEN away from her when I became pregnant! I see you, you wonderful families out there, in this picture perfect scenarios that stay with me like mental photographs: one of you holding your toddlers hand while the other tends to the baby; one of you, in sheer exhaustion and exasperation, gives the screaming baby to the other to deal with; you who draw your arms close around each other and pose in perfect smiles in front of the camera - I see you. I envy you in ways you can't imagine. Oh - what you give your children! What a gift! It is a gift - and please, oh please treat it as such!
No doubt many of you out there have far greater things to worry about than I. I don't mean to patronize, guilt trip or condescend. I realize that Eva not having her real father living with her is not going to cause either of us to drop dead. Oft times I look at the trials of others and mine look shockingly minuscule.
My daughter's tears, however, I cannot stand. Her anguish is my anguish. Her pain my pain - an almost physical pain, burning in my chest, deep in my stomach and along down my spine. (And no, it's not a spider burrowing into my neck, for those Simpsons lovers out there). Any mother would wish they could take away the pain of their children. But I can't take this pain away, can I? I can only teach her to deal with it, mold it, turn it into a manageable reality for her to understand and accept.
I suppose that's the way with any trial in one's life. What's that great quote? - 'Lord, give me the strength to accept the things that I can't change, the courage to change the things I can and the wisdom to know the difference.' Something like that - don't quote me. But it holds true and is a kind reminder to anyone who deals with trials in their life, regardless of quantity or quality.
Also, the strength to kick "his" ass, might come in handy too. ;-)
No doubt this instinct is ingrained deep into the psyche of every Mother throughout history. Amounts of this instinct may be highly variable, causing some mothers to tie their children to themselves through the use of furry-faced-back-pack-leashes, home schooling and fierce play mate matching, while others may feel the Internet and T.V. celebrities be the best babysitter and let their children run free in the supermarket. Regardless of how we rate the danger and how much attention we give it, we all have basic desires to protect our children physically, emotionally and mentally from danger.
But danger can take strange and uncanny forms. Forms that, in some lights, may not appear to be danger. For example, a father.
My apologies to anyone's sensibilities that may be offended by reading this, but my danger radar goes completely buck wild whenever "he" calls her. Raising her on my own for 3 years has made me sensitive to a fault, no doubt, about the men in her life- especially those who seek to label themselves as her daddyio. We've had a few interesting characters over the years (and secretly I sincerely hope not many more in future years) and they all have been left behind and forgotten quite easily (most easily by her, more often than not) - - except this one. He keeps lingering in the doorway like an unpleasant stray dog that you hate to shoo away but for the pity in his hang-dog expression of remorse. And he's actually related to your child. Okay, maybe that example got a tad convoluted.
The long and short of it? - - how I wish I could have a different sperm donor for my daughter!
Whoops - did I just say that out loud?
It's hard. Damn hard. Especially when I have the pleasure of having the oh-so-sensitive, perceptive, observant Eva as daughter. Here is the rough dialogue of our conversation tonight at bedtime:
Eva, crying into her hands.
Me: "Eva, what's wrong?"
Eva, won't look at me, cries harder.
Me: "Sweetie, what's the matter??"
Eventually, she calms down enough and I can make out the sobs.
Eva: "I. just. miss. my. father."
Me, hoping to just distract. "That's ok. Don't worry. Look at this story, isn't it funny?"
Eva, having none of it, continues to cry. : "Why doesn't he yove me?"
What?? Now, I'm crying too.
Eva: "I just want him to yive with me. I just want to see him."
Me, at a complete loss for words, just holding her in replace of the words that I can't find.
Finally, all I can calm her down with is this: "He does love you. You will see him."
And inside I am cursing something, him, fate, life, whatever brought me to this point - to this moment, here, where my 3 year old comprehends too much about feeling the loss of not having a father. And thinking that he better make my words come true, and do I trust him enough with such a fragile promise? How can I possibly place that small trust on the shoulders of someone who once betrayed a much greater trust placed in him? It flies in the face of logic!
Please don't shake your head, roll your eyes, and sigh "drama queen!" up to the heavens. The simplest of relationships that the lions share of you out there, not all, but the lions share of you, take forgranted every day is the one that my daughter cries for, at age 3, and the one that I can NEVER give her. You mothers out here, who give your babies their biological father? Do you understand how I yearn for that, simplest and most basic of relationships for my daughter? When your children cry for their father, as Eva did tonight, do you call out to your husband in the other room and say merely: "She wants you tonight, honey!" How many nights have I wished to do just that? Say those words - and have someone actually come!
Not with "him", of course. I don't long for "him". More like I long for what I "thought" I had. What I "thought" I was giving Eva when I became pregnant with her - in fact, what I didn't even realize could be TAKEN away from her when I became pregnant! I see you, you wonderful families out there, in this picture perfect scenarios that stay with me like mental photographs: one of you holding your toddlers hand while the other tends to the baby; one of you, in sheer exhaustion and exasperation, gives the screaming baby to the other to deal with; you who draw your arms close around each other and pose in perfect smiles in front of the camera - I see you. I envy you in ways you can't imagine. Oh - what you give your children! What a gift! It is a gift - and please, oh please treat it as such!
No doubt many of you out there have far greater things to worry about than I. I don't mean to patronize, guilt trip or condescend. I realize that Eva not having her real father living with her is not going to cause either of us to drop dead. Oft times I look at the trials of others and mine look shockingly minuscule.
My daughter's tears, however, I cannot stand. Her anguish is my anguish. Her pain my pain - an almost physical pain, burning in my chest, deep in my stomach and along down my spine. (And no, it's not a spider burrowing into my neck, for those Simpsons lovers out there). Any mother would wish they could take away the pain of their children. But I can't take this pain away, can I? I can only teach her to deal with it, mold it, turn it into a manageable reality for her to understand and accept.
I suppose that's the way with any trial in one's life. What's that great quote? - 'Lord, give me the strength to accept the things that I can't change, the courage to change the things I can and the wisdom to know the difference.' Something like that - don't quote me. But it holds true and is a kind reminder to anyone who deals with trials in their life, regardless of quantity or quality.
Also, the strength to kick "his" ass, might come in handy too. ;-)
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