It's no secret that becoming a parent really shifts one's world view. Pick up any mom and baby magazine, chat to any new mom or dad, they all say the same thing - the world just looks different. When a child is born, so is a parent. It's as if a switch is flipped in your head, sharpening your vision, forcing you to confront those things that have only ever been peripheral to you. The days seem shorter, the failing education system scares the crap out of you, small dangers are vastly more terrifying. And things you took for granted, or never even really thought about, piss you off.
Over the past 15 months my own world view has been radically altered. The manner of my little man's arrival certainly jostled my brain into high gear but, if I'm honest with myself, the true eye opener happened a little over a month before I first saw his precious face.
They say bad things happen in threes. This old adage is yet to be proven false in my own experience. About 6 weeks before Ricky was born, Rod was in an accident that resulted in our car being written off. It wasn't his fault, but that didn't stop it from happening. That is when my brain clicked over. I imagined raising our child alone, imagined telling him about the father who would have loved him more than his own life. Late pregnancy hormones can certainly be credited with at least 12% of that paranoia, but I knew already that motherhood was changing me. The second blow came a month after Rod's accident, ten days before Ricky was due to be born. My own father disowned me via text message. I won't go into the sordid details, but suffice it to say that from the time my parents divorced when I was five, I had very little contact with the man who sired me. After on-again off-again contact through the years, my brother and I chose to actively pursue a relationship with our father at the end of 2009. It didn't work out. That is when my brain decided that I would never be him. The final blow was Ricky's birth. Again, that's a story for another time. I was a wash of hormones and morphine and pain and fear. No one walks away unscathed after piercing the veil. That is when my brain betrayed me.
I've always prided myself on being tough. I grew up quickly, living a hard life, and I did more than just survive. I prided myself on being brave. I was always willing to tackle situations bigger than myself, even if it meant my downfall. But becoming a mom has made me feel neither tough nor brave. I feel utterly vulnerable. Every. Single. Day. I have been made soft. And this new position in the world has made me look at everything with virgin eyes.
I remember a girl I knew in primary school. I can't remember her name, but I can see her face. She was petite and somewhat plain, with ditchwater blonde hair, light eyes and soft freckles spattering her nose. She was only at our school for a few months. It was summer, but she always wore her school jersey. Eventually one day she showed me why. Her mom, who had had her quite young, would write all over her arms and torso in black permanent marker, scribbling band names and symbols with heavy, angry strokes, like a teenager adorning her diary with graffiti. Her own child. Growing up I saw a lot of neglect and abuse, so much so that it became ingrained to the point of making me blind to it. But when I think back to that girl now, I get so incredibly angry. I don't understand how a parent can treat a child that way. Their child. Their own blood.
I cannot imagine doing something even remotely similar to Ricky. Just as I cannot imagine leaving him. I knew a multitude of children such as myself who grew up without one parent or the other. Usually the father. Households that scraped by on a single salary while daddy was off setting up franchises. I've tried over the years to understand my own father's motives, I've even defended him. I see now that was not my job. I should have never been forced to be the adult in that relationship. A generation of forgotten children, of first families, not even worthy enough to be mentioned in passing, struggling day in and day out. My father didn't even want to meet his first grandchild, couldn't have cared less. My eyes were opened. Oh, how blind I had been.
And I am pissed off.
Not at my father in particular. But at the situation. What do I tell my children when they ask about their missing grandpa? How do I make them understand that it's not them he doesn't love, but me? I am pissed off that there are parents born every day that will make their children feel the way that I have felt. I am pissed off by the injustice. I am pissed off by the number of children thrown away, abused, neglected, shipped off, left to their own devices without so much as a backward glance. I am pissed off that there are children who will never be deemed good enough for their parents, no matter how amazing they may be. I am pissed off that there are children who will only ever be seen as a burden to their parents, an unwanted responsibility. I am pissed off that parents who claim to love their children will gladly hand them over to be raised by someone else, whether it be a grandparent, a nanny, a neighbour, so that their lives won't be disturbed. I am pissed off.
When I look at my son, I see the most amazing thing God ever put on this green earth. I will never leave him, I will never neglect him, I will never abuse him, and I will always love him. And he will always know it.
And so, here's to getting it out and letting it go.
Smiles,
Mommy
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