Monday, May 15, 2017
There are some holidays that I would prefer not to even open some of my different social media accounts. Mother’s Day is one of them. I find it hard to feel all appreciative toward a mother who made my life at times a living hell. Add to that the fact that I never could have children, and I would prefer to stay in bed and just feed my face with chocolate while cursing all the lovey-dovey sentiments on both social media and my television.
I remember when I was little, I was raised to think that being a wife and mother was the most important job a woman could have. The first games I played were house with my little school friends. We would argue about who would get to be the mommy. I always swore when I grew up and had kids, they would never be treated the way we were treated as kids. My kids would not have to go through what my brothers and I did. Funny how fate plays you a far different hand of cards.
I became pregnant when I was nineteen. By the time I actually began to truly believe that it was true, I had miscarried. I was almost in my fourth month. I remember being so ill afterward. I ran such a high fever, I was delirious for three days. My only memories are flashes. The first day I woke up lucid, I woke up with this deep seated feeling of emptiness. I would never be able to have children. I went into a cycle of denial that would last for years. In my mind I would have kids, it was what you did when you grew up. It was expected of you by your family. By your church.
What is the funniest thing when I think back to those days? Somewhere in the back of my mind, I sighed a breath of relief with each month I could say I had failed once again. I didn’t have the time or patience for children. I had a step child with my husband who I loved with all my heart, but in some dark place, I was glad she lived full time with her mom. Her dad was all the child I could deal with at that time. I know I sound cold-hearted but I had been caring for my brothers since the day they were born. By the time I was in my twenties and had moved out of my parent's house I felt I could finally have some freedom. It wasn’t to be but I had that dream.
Did I still mourn the loss of my unborn child? Yes. I would sit in the quiet sometimes and wonder what he would have looked like. Would he have taken after me or his father? I thought about how he would have had his grandpa wrapped around his little fingers. I pictured him with his grandpa’s lopsided grin. I also came to understand that God had a reason to calling him home. He was to give me a glimpse of what could have been so I could move on to what was to be.
I would not have been a good mother. I was too busy trying to build a life with little education, and a disabled husband. I was working a full-time job, sometimes even a second one to make ends meet. There were times I met myself coming and going out the door to work. The only way I got to see my husband was when he would visit me at work.Can you imagine bringing a child into the mix? I was a mother though. I was the mama to a household full of cats. At one time we had eleven cats running around underfoot. That’s what happens when you have to pregnant females who have kittens within a short time of each other. I was in heaven.
On Mother’s Day and on Father’s Day, I step back from the happy celebrating. I don’t find any joy in either day. I even tried to call my mom today to be the dutiful daughter and wish her a Happy Mother’s Day the call went straight to voicemail. If I could make that call come June to my Dad, it would get answered with a cheerful “what’s up, kid?” Too bad there aren’t cell towers in heaven.