Happy Mother's Day

As we approach the national holiday of Mothers Day, and as my therapist brings light to my “issues” revolving around the woman who gave birth to me (because the title mommy doesn’t seem fitting) I will write this pain away, much like I want to believe I have before over other pain I have experienced.

When the doctors laid my son on my chest still slightly covered in the fluids that kept him encompassed and comfortable in my body, I cried my eyes out. Nicco looked up at me with the softest brown eyes I had only seen in my reflection, he cooed a little and nuzzled my breasts with two big deep dimples on either side of his cheek. The pain it took to get to the point where I could hold this blessing of a baby was unbearable. The chaos that happened in that hospital room, a doctor sticking their hand in my lady parts to verify my cervix numbers, the nurses surrounding me pushing my thighs open and up, one nurse holding my hand. And the way I gripped those metal silver side rails in agony, my screams echoing around all four walls and I am sure down the halls, the pain I felt as my body contracted in my lower back and all through my body. Oh, but it was all worth it to hold my son for the first time. I knew nothing about motherhood then, I laugh in fact, at the 19 year old me preparing to have a child. But who is ever really ready? Rocking him to sleep, while I had no sleep myself, checking to see if he was breathing every two hours, scared of the horror stories I had heard about babies dying in their sleep. Learning his cries as he chose between hunger, a diaper change, and the innocent pure desire to be held and loved on by his mommy. He knew me, he knew my voice, my smell, and my love. Keeping him dressed and comfortable in the cutest outfits any store had, helping him learn to sit up, the excitement and joy I felt as he learned to crawl, watching him learn to pull up on various household items, and then helping my baby to walk. His first haircut quickly turned into his first days at daycare, and then his first day in preschool, and the first day of kindergarten. Those years zoomed by merciless on my heart and memories. We had our first baseball team in Florida, and then his first football team in Missouri. Now we are looking at each other from different heights, him looking down at me because his 5 foot 10 frame is taller than my 5 foot 4 body. His dimples still shine through all of his emotions, his laugh is deep and his hands are quick. I couldn’t imagine my life without him. I have taken great pride (perhaps too much) in claiming that little baby, turned toddler boy, turned teenage young man, as my own. I never miss the opportunity to tell him it took me 19 hours and 26 minutes to bring him into this world. He is my SONshine. And I pray Nicco knows it in his soul and spirit. Nicco’s name means people of victory and I praise God for the victories Nicco will experience in Jesus name.

Nia was a different story. Her labor was easy, my body filled with all of the pain numbing medicine the hospital had to offer. 4 hours and 28 minutes and this gorgeous, tiny, much smaller than her brother, head of beautiful soft black curls, with the tiniest face, and such a quiet and peaceful demeanor baby girl was laid on my breasts. And I cried my eyes out again. My daughter has changed the heart of who I was and am as a woman. She got held a little bit more, and time has been kinder to my heart as things slowed down tremendously at age 26 birthing a child. Her name means bright and purpose, and I praise God for the light and tender heart He has blessed her with.

And these sweet irreplaceable, life changing memories bring me to great devastation as I wonder where the bleepity bleep bleep my mother is at. Every year on my children’s birthdays I tell them the story of the day they were born. Every year one or two small details change but they both listen eagerly to hear about how delighted I was to bring them into this world. Nothing could ever replace my love for them. Where is her love for me? One of the reasons I didn’t want to do therapy for a long time was from the fear of bringing up or talking about the pain of my life. I was never sure what I would do with the regurgitation of deep wounds. To be honest I was scared if I ever talked about it out loud I might go crazy and end up in a hospital. I was scared I would have nothing but the realization of pain and I wouldn’t know what to do after that. No one will ever know the sorrow I feel about my mom. The many many times I have reminded myself that she didn’t want me. The grief of losing something you have never had. The disappointment in meeting her tore me apart in places I had done the best that I could do at keeping it all together. How could she not want me? Why wasn’t I good enough to stick around. The way I will gladly lose my religion to curse anybody out who I feel like impeded on any of either of my children’s emotions, the fight I almost got into at my son’s football game, the emails I have sent Nia’s teacher about someone stealing her strawberries. How could I feel these things for my babies and she isn’t or hasn’t been here for me. Do you understand what I am saying ? What was more important than me? The deep rooted jealously I have genuinely had to pray God removed from my spirit when I watched my friends with their moms. The cringe I felt hearing them call their moms. The many times I wished one of my foster moms would treat me like a daughter instead of a paycheck, the searching the world high and low for the love I only wanted from her, the many times I selflessly yet selfishly gave more of myself to someone/anyone in hopes that they would choose me to replace her rejection. The way the story unfolded was tragic and it is overwhelming. So, I become angry as I am on this journey to heal. I feel the bubbling over of dare I say hate spilling into sacred parts of my spirit. Not only was she never around to share with me the story of when I was born, she wasn’t there to send emails, or curse people out, she never packed my lunch, or put band aids on my boo boos, she didn’t protect me from being molested, she didn’t stick around to make sure no one beat me into fear and submission, she didn’t show up like I wished when we got put into foster care, she never saw me in a prom dress, she didn’t teach me about boys, she didn’t hold my hand through labor. I could go on and on about all the moments I silently ached for the woman who gave birth to me. But I get angry realizing that after all of that, she still left me physically BUT has gotten away with the emotional trauma I carry. While I am begging God to love me like a mom should, and grieving over breakups that trigger the issues, I get angry when I realize it stems from her. How does she get so much of me, when she never chose me. It was too hard, we were too black, we weren’t enough of a reason. And I know some of my readers wont find the empathy to realize if it was as easy as “letting it go” and “getting over it” I would do that. I honestly wish it was that easy. This same heart realizes after having my own children and taking a few licks from life myself that parenting is no walk in the park. Responsibility is heavy. I see, myself, how hard it can be to show up for your children the way they need you to in the midst of your own stuff.

I remember her and I have met her as an adult, which blows my mind. I always told myself I would never be like her. I would never leave my children. I would never make them question if I loved them or not. And I have struggled with raising my son. I have struggled with taking the responsibility for him. I have struggled with being present and now I am spending time trying to make up for the mistakes I made early on. Realizing that being physically present doesn’t count, if you are not spiritually present.

As I prepare myself for all of the Happy Mothers Day posts and even well wishes towards me, I wonder how happy has this day ever really been? Yes, my heart feels deep joy and love for my babies and I am extremely blessed to be a mom, but I still wonder where this woman is, and ask myself how is mothers day happy for her, if it is, when she was never a mom to me…