I wish I would have had the money and the guts to fight for my kids. My ex just wanted me out of his life, and the kids' lives completely, once he understood we were no longer going to be together. Anything it took to get me completely out of their lives he was going to do. And he did it.
I am not saying I am a perfect parent, or I did everything perfectly. I have made many, many mistakes. But I believe it is a child's right to have both parents in their lives. Unless there is a good reason for that not to happen.
I know my ex left a message on my daughter's phone on her eleventh birthday saying I was on drugs, and that my 'boyfriend' was a criminal. I know because I listened to her message which ordinarily I didn't do. I wanted to encourage her to stay in contact with her father, and when we were going through the separation and she said she missed him I told her to call him. If he wanted to come over, I'd go out so she and her dad could hang out.
A month before we separated we had gone up to Oregon for spring break to spend the Easter holiday with my sister, brother-in-law, niece, and my mom and step-father. We drove up from California, with my daughter and eldest son. My middle son wanted to stay home in CA with his grandma, and my ex-husband agreed against my wishes.
We got to my sister's house where we had spent much time during many summers. My daughter was happy to see her little cousin Maddie, and her aunt, uncle, grandma and grandpa. My oldest seemed pleased to be there too, but mostly interested in his video games.
My ex decided on Easter day to leave me at my sister's and drive back to California. We were just getting the table set up for Easter dinner. Apparently, he had heard me discussing some of our marital problems in the kitchen with my mom and sister. Next thing I knew he was loading his suitcase in the suburban. I ran outside, baffled and scared. He said, "That's it. I'm divorcing you!" I asked him to stay, to discuss it. I said I was sorry I'd been discussing our problems with my mother and sister. He said he was leaving.
He told our son and daughter to go with him. I told them it was up to them if they wanted to stay or go. I was shaking from head to toe, feeling like jelly on the inside, but I willed myself to stay calm for the kids. My family seemed on the sidelines, out of vision. I heard a few pleas of, "Jim, calm down. Come eat some dinner." I'm not sure who said it, but I'm pretty sure my sister, brother-in-law, mom and step-father all did.
My daughter clung to my waist while her dad begged her to come with him. Easter dinner was on the table and our eldest son was in the passenger seat of the suburban ready to go. My daughter said, "I'm staying with mom." She had been put in the middle, stretched like a rubber band, put in a position I didn't want her to have to be in, of having to chose. Her dad kept saying, "Come home with me. I want you to come with me."
My daughter and I stayed at my sister's for the rest of spring break. The weather was nice and we went kayaking on a lake nearby, rode the horses, played with my niece, and enjoyed getting to be around family. My daughter didn't ask too much about her dad, but became very anxious if I was out of her sight.
My family didn't seem that surprised by my ex's behavior. They put it down to an extreme over-reaction. My mother didn't tell me until we were in the process of divorce that Jim had called and left a message on her phone the night he left. His message was that in the event I needed to be hospitalized, (apparently assuming I would have a breakdown because he left) would my mother please ride on the airplane with my daughter to bring her home.
Showing posts with label parenting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label parenting. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Saturday, April 2, 2011
I May Never See Them Again
Sometimes it feel like my chest will implode. It will cave in from being empty and rotting on the inside.
How to decribe this sadness? I haven't seen my kids in so long. I don't know what they look like. I know they must look different. Four years. The major transformation. Teenagers, then young adults. All kid years are transformative years. I feel resentment at parents that have children, have their children period.
It is not the pain it was before. The pain of every day being dark, one I did not think I could live through. The pain raw, open, blood fresh on the surface.
At first, in every child, I would see my own. A skinny long-limbed girl with thick auburn hair. A stocky, laughing boy with mocking eyes, my middle son. An awkward, knock-kneed boy with fair skin, large clear brown eyes, halting speech, my eldest.
Sometimes it hits hard, air sucked from my lungs, like I am drowning. A scab pulled off a wound that has begun to close up, ripped fresh. Always I feel a dull, constant ache.
There is a real possibilty I don't ever want to look at head-on. But it is there. I may never see them again. I may never know them as they are. The possibility is that all I will have of my children are my memories. The looks backward in the rear-view mirror that are never quite accurate. The feelings that are unquestionable.
How to decribe this sadness? I haven't seen my kids in so long. I don't know what they look like. I know they must look different. Four years. The major transformation. Teenagers, then young adults. All kid years are transformative years. I feel resentment at parents that have children, have their children period.
It is not the pain it was before. The pain of every day being dark, one I did not think I could live through. The pain raw, open, blood fresh on the surface.
At first, in every child, I would see my own. A skinny long-limbed girl with thick auburn hair. A stocky, laughing boy with mocking eyes, my middle son. An awkward, knock-kneed boy with fair skin, large clear brown eyes, halting speech, my eldest.
Sometimes it hits hard, air sucked from my lungs, like I am drowning. A scab pulled off a wound that has begun to close up, ripped fresh. Always I feel a dull, constant ache.
There is a real possibilty I don't ever want to look at head-on. But it is there. I may never see them again. I may never know them as they are. The possibility is that all I will have of my children are my memories. The looks backward in the rear-view mirror that are never quite accurate. The feelings that are unquestionable.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
It is Christmas
It is Christmas time. Children are everywhere. I look at couples with children. Families. It seems like a group or club, I no longer belong to. That I never belonged to. A lie I made up.
It is as though I invented a life full of detail, in which I gave birth to three beautiful children. A grand hallucination, and all a lie.
I grieve daily, over and over, many deaths. The death of my role as a mother. The deaths of my children from my life.
At Christmas time, I remember decorating the tree with ornaments they made at school. Usually the ornament had a photo of their little face at the center. We baked cookies and frosted them, wrapped gifts.
I remember snuggling them, my nose in their hair. Each of them smelled different. My oldest had a sweet, soft smell, my middle was pungent, my youngest a combination of the two. Their smells were the same from the time they were babies till I saw them last.
It would be easier, it seems, if it were a beautiful and sad lie. A life I concocted for myself that never truly existed. A story of a family with three very real-seeming children, dogs and cats, rabbits and lizards and birds, mismathced socks,video games blaring through the house, kids yelling, "Mom, mom, mom, mooooommmm!!" A story I read. That I imagined to be true. Christmases of Barbie, and Power Rangers, Star Wars and candy, baking cookies and going to grandma's, wrapping gifts and hiding them under the bed. Putting my kids in flannel pajamas for Christmas Eve that were much too warm for Southern California.
I cannot talk about my kids without feeling I am lying. When I tell stories of things that have happened, I feel I have no right to the stories. I feel the stories belong to my children now. That I am not suppossed to have even the memories.
So Christmas time is here. And I have plenty of memories that I feel are not mine to have. And plenty of stories that I feel are not mine to tell.
It is as though I invented a life full of detail, in which I gave birth to three beautiful children. A grand hallucination, and all a lie.
I grieve daily, over and over, many deaths. The death of my role as a mother. The deaths of my children from my life.
At Christmas time, I remember decorating the tree with ornaments they made at school. Usually the ornament had a photo of their little face at the center. We baked cookies and frosted them, wrapped gifts.
I remember snuggling them, my nose in their hair. Each of them smelled different. My oldest had a sweet, soft smell, my middle was pungent, my youngest a combination of the two. Their smells were the same from the time they were babies till I saw them last.
It would be easier, it seems, if it were a beautiful and sad lie. A life I concocted for myself that never truly existed. A story of a family with three very real-seeming children, dogs and cats, rabbits and lizards and birds, mismathced socks,video games blaring through the house, kids yelling, "Mom, mom, mom, mooooommmm!!" A story I read. That I imagined to be true. Christmases of Barbie, and Power Rangers, Star Wars and candy, baking cookies and going to grandma's, wrapping gifts and hiding them under the bed. Putting my kids in flannel pajamas for Christmas Eve that were much too warm for Southern California.
I cannot talk about my kids without feeling I am lying. When I tell stories of things that have happened, I feel I have no right to the stories. I feel the stories belong to my children now. That I am not suppossed to have even the memories.
So Christmas time is here. And I have plenty of memories that I feel are not mine to have. And plenty of stories that I feel are not mine to tell.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
I Used To Be A Mom
The holidays are starting again--and during the holidays I am acutely aware of my children's absence. I am aware all the time. So I guess that is a gross misunderstatement.
Now it has been nearly three and a half years without them. During this time I have been trying to survive.
I don't go around telling people I don't have my kids. I do find myself saying, "When I used to have kids-". This is a blunder I quickly try to cover up, that I hope others don't notice. I feel my face redden, and inside I feel a hole opening. Sometimes I see the other person's expression change to one of bafflement and judgement. The judgement part could be me, judging myself.
People always ask, "Do you have kids?" I want to tell them the truth. I want to say, "I used to." What I say is, "Yes." They ask, "How many?" I say, "Three. Two boys and a girl." They ask, "How old?"
I have to stop and think about it. How old are they now? I hope people don't notice this pause. Especially when your children are younger you can rattle off their ages to the day, practically.
To me, my children haven't aged at all. They are still the ages they were when I saw them last. I have not seen them in person since that time, three and a half years ago. This was the last time they went, each, individually, for a 'visit' with their father.
Keegan was short and stocky still, fourteen, he left with his backpack and his skateboard. Tanith, too, left with a backpack. When Keegan left he was mad at me, in a fit, and he called his dad to come get him. Tanith, same thing. I don't believe they made up their minds to leave. Levi, on the other hand, had. He decided when I told him I had a boyfriend. I think the next day he told me, "Mom, on the last day of school, I am going to live with dad." He said this very calmly.
School was over in about two weeks, out for the summer. I didn't believe him, I thought maybe he was angry and saying something he didn't mean. Without emotion of course, because he never really expressed emotion. He has Asperger's syndrome. And he did say things he didn't mean, or that were majorly skewed in some way, very black and white. But when the last day of school came, and by then I had mostly forgotten about his pledge to move in with his dad, Levi calmly packed up two back packs, (as far as I could tell just with video games,) and his dad came to pick him up. My mother-in-law came back in the house with Levi just a few minutes after he'd gone out the door, to hurriedly gather some clothes. (My ex was living at his mother's.) She scarcely looked at me and did not smile. It was awkward, scary, uncomfortable. I did not think Levi would really leave. He seemed composed and deliberate. Levi and his grandma went out the door, their arms ladden with his things, and got in the suburban with his dad. That was June 21, 2007. I haven't seen my son since.
I feel like I'm lying when people ask me if I have children and I say,"Yes."
I want to tell the truth. I want to say, "No. I used to have children." Or, "I was a mom. But I lost my job." Something like that. And when they ask me how old my kids are and I tell them, I feel like I should say, "At least I think that's how old they are. I haven't seen them in over three years, so I don't really know."
And then they ask me what grade they are in, and again, I feel like I need a giant disclaimer: "All characters and names in this story are fictious. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental."
Now it has been nearly three and a half years without them. During this time I have been trying to survive.
I don't go around telling people I don't have my kids. I do find myself saying, "When I used to have kids-". This is a blunder I quickly try to cover up, that I hope others don't notice. I feel my face redden, and inside I feel a hole opening. Sometimes I see the other person's expression change to one of bafflement and judgement. The judgement part could be me, judging myself.
People always ask, "Do you have kids?" I want to tell them the truth. I want to say, "I used to." What I say is, "Yes." They ask, "How many?" I say, "Three. Two boys and a girl." They ask, "How old?"
I have to stop and think about it. How old are they now? I hope people don't notice this pause. Especially when your children are younger you can rattle off their ages to the day, practically.
To me, my children haven't aged at all. They are still the ages they were when I saw them last. I have not seen them in person since that time, three and a half years ago. This was the last time they went, each, individually, for a 'visit' with their father.
Keegan was short and stocky still, fourteen, he left with his backpack and his skateboard. Tanith, too, left with a backpack. When Keegan left he was mad at me, in a fit, and he called his dad to come get him. Tanith, same thing. I don't believe they made up their minds to leave. Levi, on the other hand, had. He decided when I told him I had a boyfriend. I think the next day he told me, "Mom, on the last day of school, I am going to live with dad." He said this very calmly.
School was over in about two weeks, out for the summer. I didn't believe him, I thought maybe he was angry and saying something he didn't mean. Without emotion of course, because he never really expressed emotion. He has Asperger's syndrome. And he did say things he didn't mean, or that were majorly skewed in some way, very black and white. But when the last day of school came, and by then I had mostly forgotten about his pledge to move in with his dad, Levi calmly packed up two back packs, (as far as I could tell just with video games,) and his dad came to pick him up. My mother-in-law came back in the house with Levi just a few minutes after he'd gone out the door, to hurriedly gather some clothes. (My ex was living at his mother's.) She scarcely looked at me and did not smile. It was awkward, scary, uncomfortable. I did not think Levi would really leave. He seemed composed and deliberate. Levi and his grandma went out the door, their arms ladden with his things, and got in the suburban with his dad. That was June 21, 2007. I haven't seen my son since.
I feel like I'm lying when people ask me if I have children and I say,"Yes."
I want to tell the truth. I want to say, "No. I used to have children." Or, "I was a mom. But I lost my job." Something like that. And when they ask me how old my kids are and I tell them, I feel like I should say, "At least I think that's how old they are. I haven't seen them in over three years, so I don't really know."
And then they ask me what grade they are in, and again, I feel like I need a giant disclaimer: "All characters and names in this story are fictious. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental."
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Remembering
I don't want to feel sad anymore. Sad, sad. Everything still makes me think of my kids. Seeing a lizard. My car. Putting capers in a salad. Going to the beach. Doing laundry. Watching a movie. Sad, empty,lost.
I don't want to feel sad. I've been sad for three years.
In the beginning, I felt ripped apart, literally. A week away from my children was an eternity. Not hearing their voices, not touching their skin, not pressing my face in their hair.
Now, I tell stories of them. Over and over. It is as if they have died and I am keeping them alive with remembrances. I tell stories to new friends. They haven't met my children but they know them through stories.
How Keegan as a five year old called the Tahoe the Toe-ha. How Levi's pet rat Nicky, got pregnant by Keegan's rat named Jason, and then how Levi rushed into my bedroom waking me up at six in the morning calling out, "Mommy, mommy, Nicky's birthing her babies!"
How Keegan's pet rat Jason was named after Keegan's favorite Power Ranger. And then how Jason met an early demise when Tanith at two and a half years old was holding Jason and then suddenly threw him in the air to see if he could fly.
Tanith loved capers and ate them straight from the jar. Levi never had mathcing socks on school mornings so I'd tell him to go find some in the dirty clothes basket. Keegan named my favorite beach "Squirrel Beach" because of all the squirrels in the cliffs along it. Whenever we shopped for shoes Tanith insisted on trying on the high heels. Because of my children, I have seen every Disney movie made from 1993-2007.
In the beginning, I watched alot of movies (no Disney), to try to forget for just a moment. Often, then and now, I imagine I am in jail, or away at war, and that is why I can't see my kids. I remember, there are other people who haved loved ones they miss terribly, that they can't be with.
Sometimes, my memories make me happy. Other times, they are like a punch in the gut leaving me gasping for air.
I don't want to feel sad. I've been sad for three years.
In the beginning, I felt ripped apart, literally. A week away from my children was an eternity. Not hearing their voices, not touching their skin, not pressing my face in their hair.
Now, I tell stories of them. Over and over. It is as if they have died and I am keeping them alive with remembrances. I tell stories to new friends. They haven't met my children but they know them through stories.
How Keegan as a five year old called the Tahoe the Toe-ha. How Levi's pet rat Nicky, got pregnant by Keegan's rat named Jason, and then how Levi rushed into my bedroom waking me up at six in the morning calling out, "Mommy, mommy, Nicky's birthing her babies!"
How Keegan's pet rat Jason was named after Keegan's favorite Power Ranger. And then how Jason met an early demise when Tanith at two and a half years old was holding Jason and then suddenly threw him in the air to see if he could fly.
Tanith loved capers and ate them straight from the jar. Levi never had mathcing socks on school mornings so I'd tell him to go find some in the dirty clothes basket. Keegan named my favorite beach "Squirrel Beach" because of all the squirrels in the cliffs along it. Whenever we shopped for shoes Tanith insisted on trying on the high heels. Because of my children, I have seen every Disney movie made from 1993-2007.
In the beginning, I watched alot of movies (no Disney), to try to forget for just a moment. Often, then and now, I imagine I am in jail, or away at war, and that is why I can't see my kids. I remember, there are other people who haved loved ones they miss terribly, that they can't be with.
Sometimes, my memories make me happy. Other times, they are like a punch in the gut leaving me gasping for air.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Happy Birthday Keegan
Dear Keegan,
Tomorrow is your birthday. You will be seventeen. And it has been almost three years since I've seen you.
When I was last with you we still lived at our home of nearly twelve years. It was Tanith's birthday the next day. I was getting ready for her party. She was going to have a slumber party with eight girls. Your dad was gone. I had asked him to move out and had already filed for divorce. What a horrible, painful time that was. For you kids I'm sure it was excruciating. I had a panacea already--a boyfriend to ease my pain. I chose to tell you and your brother and sister I had a boyfriend. Looking back, of course, everything I did was all wrong.
Your father has been so bitter toward me. I was so angry at him. I'm sure he was hurt, and so was I. Now that time has gone by I remember more of the good things he did, and his good qualities. How he liked to go on outings as a family, how we went to Oregon every summer driving up in the Suburban and stayed with my sister, your aunt Lisa, and his dad, your grandpa. I remember how he took care of everything with the Suburban, getting it ready, new tires, tune up, getting a VCR player put in so you kids could watch movies on the trip up.
And your dad got the Suburban for me because I said I needed three rows of seats for you and your brother and sister: one row for each of you. Once your sister was old enough to pester you, you fought like wild cats when you were in the car. Your dad agreed that separating each of you would be a good solution for the arguing that went on anytime we went somewhere as a family. One afternoon he came home driving a shiny new Suburban.
You will be seventeen, tomorrow, June seventh. When you were born all the nurses came in to look at you because of your astonishing hair. It was black at the base, red in the middle, and white blond at the tips. Your dad called you "Flame Tipper." The nurses had never seen anything like it. And you had so much hair. You were the biggest of my babies, nine pounds. And happy. My Keegie-love, I called you.
I meant to write about you--because it will be your birthday. You have been so angry at me, too. Not that this is new. You became a hostile child, teenager. And I suppose the fact of you being your father's and my child that should come as no surprise to me. Your father and I were moody rebellious teenagers.
I know you are in a band and play guitar. You are so tall and skinny now. And handsome. You have your dad's gorgeous jaw line. I see videos of you in your band on YouTube. I know too, that you have played with bands I idolized as a teenager. I'm pretty sure you have no idea I know any of these things, and I know you have no idea how proud I am of you. And how in awe.
It will be your birthday. I was blessed to help bring you into the world. You have been a gift to me. Happy Birthday.
Tomorrow is your birthday. You will be seventeen. And it has been almost three years since I've seen you.
When I was last with you we still lived at our home of nearly twelve years. It was Tanith's birthday the next day. I was getting ready for her party. She was going to have a slumber party with eight girls. Your dad was gone. I had asked him to move out and had already filed for divorce. What a horrible, painful time that was. For you kids I'm sure it was excruciating. I had a panacea already--a boyfriend to ease my pain. I chose to tell you and your brother and sister I had a boyfriend. Looking back, of course, everything I did was all wrong.
Your father has been so bitter toward me. I was so angry at him. I'm sure he was hurt, and so was I. Now that time has gone by I remember more of the good things he did, and his good qualities. How he liked to go on outings as a family, how we went to Oregon every summer driving up in the Suburban and stayed with my sister, your aunt Lisa, and his dad, your grandpa. I remember how he took care of everything with the Suburban, getting it ready, new tires, tune up, getting a VCR player put in so you kids could watch movies on the trip up.
And your dad got the Suburban for me because I said I needed three rows of seats for you and your brother and sister: one row for each of you. Once your sister was old enough to pester you, you fought like wild cats when you were in the car. Your dad agreed that separating each of you would be a good solution for the arguing that went on anytime we went somewhere as a family. One afternoon he came home driving a shiny new Suburban.
You will be seventeen, tomorrow, June seventh. When you were born all the nurses came in to look at you because of your astonishing hair. It was black at the base, red in the middle, and white blond at the tips. Your dad called you "Flame Tipper." The nurses had never seen anything like it. And you had so much hair. You were the biggest of my babies, nine pounds. And happy. My Keegie-love, I called you.
I meant to write about you--because it will be your birthday. You have been so angry at me, too. Not that this is new. You became a hostile child, teenager. And I suppose the fact of you being your father's and my child that should come as no surprise to me. Your father and I were moody rebellious teenagers.
I know you are in a band and play guitar. You are so tall and skinny now. And handsome. You have your dad's gorgeous jaw line. I see videos of you in your band on YouTube. I know too, that you have played with bands I idolized as a teenager. I'm pretty sure you have no idea I know any of these things, and I know you have no idea how proud I am of you. And how in awe.
It will be your birthday. I was blessed to help bring you into the world. You have been a gift to me. Happy Birthday.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Pokemon
I work with fourth and fifth graders every day. I enjoy them, get joy from them, and they seem to like me. But they are not my own.
Yesterday one little boy, Jacob, brought his Pokemon card collection to show me. I know about Pokemon. I can appreciate Pokemon.
My children collected the cards for years. Keegan, my middle son, was really into Pokemon cards. He wanted to go to the card shop every day to trade cards and get new ones. He bought the card sleeves and notebook, and arranged his cards according to how valuable they were. He used to have a book explaining each different Pokemon character, their powers, and their special skills. Keegan would ask me to hold the book and quiz him on the characters like he was studying for a test. So I learned Pokemon.
Yesterday, when Jacob got his collection out, it was almost like I was back with Keegan when he was eleven. It might still make me sad even if I was in Keegan's life. All children grow up. And when I was with my kids I would look at their baby pictures and reminisce. I would miss them as babies, but enjoy the age they had become.
Yesterday one little boy, Jacob, brought his Pokemon card collection to show me. I know about Pokemon. I can appreciate Pokemon.
My children collected the cards for years. Keegan, my middle son, was really into Pokemon cards. He wanted to go to the card shop every day to trade cards and get new ones. He bought the card sleeves and notebook, and arranged his cards according to how valuable they were. He used to have a book explaining each different Pokemon character, their powers, and their special skills. Keegan would ask me to hold the book and quiz him on the characters like he was studying for a test. So I learned Pokemon.
Yesterday, when Jacob got his collection out, it was almost like I was back with Keegan when he was eleven. It might still make me sad even if I was in Keegan's life. All children grow up. And when I was with my kids I would look at their baby pictures and reminisce. I would miss them as babies, but enjoy the age they had become.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
To My Children
I never thought I'd have to write you. I never thought you'd be gone. Not like this.
I've missed each of you more than I knew it was possible to miss anyone. The hardest thing is feeling you are angry with me, that I have wronged you and I am to blame for this. Although a larger part of me feels you have been caught in a horrible (for lack of a beeter word) argument betwween your dad and I. You have been triangulated. I keep trying to make sense of it all.
You have been so angry and hurt by my actions. More than anything though, I feel you have been used by your dad to get back at me. And for that I am sorry. I think over and over what could I have done so this wouldn't have happened. But it did happen. It is happenning. It is.
I miss you all so much. I have wanted to die, literally, from the pain, many many times. But you are what keeps me alive. I couldn't do that to you. Whether I am in your lives or not. I could not add that to what you have had to deal with.
I still hear each of your voices calling, "Mom", "Mamma", "Mom!" They are your voices as they were, not as they are today.
The situation is. Sometimes I briefly wonder, what if I didn't marry your father? But I knew in my heart it was the right thing to do. And I am so happy I was priveledged to help bring each of ou into the world. Being your mother gave me more joy and love than I ever imagined was possible.
I have fought and fought to see you, talk to you, try to get back in your lives since each of you moved in with your father. I don't blame you. I am sure you are doing the best you can. In writing this I am not trying to condescend to you or imagine in any way I know what is in your minds.
It has been three years since I have seen you. I keep hoping you will be in my life again, I will be in yours. When I think of you I am devastated, my heart hurts. I have been powerless to protect you from pain, and that is all I have wanted to do as your mother--comfort, protect, love and care for you. When you were small and you cried I could pick you up, and comfort you and stop your cries. Now I cannot.
I've missed each of you more than I knew it was possible to miss anyone. The hardest thing is feeling you are angry with me, that I have wronged you and I am to blame for this. Although a larger part of me feels you have been caught in a horrible (for lack of a beeter word) argument betwween your dad and I. You have been triangulated. I keep trying to make sense of it all.
You have been so angry and hurt by my actions. More than anything though, I feel you have been used by your dad to get back at me. And for that I am sorry. I think over and over what could I have done so this wouldn't have happened. But it did happen. It is happenning. It is.
I miss you all so much. I have wanted to die, literally, from the pain, many many times. But you are what keeps me alive. I couldn't do that to you. Whether I am in your lives or not. I could not add that to what you have had to deal with.
I still hear each of your voices calling, "Mom", "Mamma", "Mom!" They are your voices as they were, not as they are today.
The situation is. Sometimes I briefly wonder, what if I didn't marry your father? But I knew in my heart it was the right thing to do. And I am so happy I was priveledged to help bring each of ou into the world. Being your mother gave me more joy and love than I ever imagined was possible.
I have fought and fought to see you, talk to you, try to get back in your lives since each of you moved in with your father. I don't blame you. I am sure you are doing the best you can. In writing this I am not trying to condescend to you or imagine in any way I know what is in your minds.
It has been three years since I have seen you. I keep hoping you will be in my life again, I will be in yours. When I think of you I am devastated, my heart hurts. I have been powerless to protect you from pain, and that is all I have wanted to do as your mother--comfort, protect, love and care for you. When you were small and you cried I could pick you up, and comfort you and stop your cries. Now I cannot.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
The Last Time I Saw My Daughter
I work with kids now. I see kids everyday. I work as an Instructional Assistant in Special Education with fourth and fifth graders. I enjoy it. But some days it makes me really sad.
My daughter was in fifth grade--had just graduated actually, and turned eleven, the last time I saw her.
I see little girls every day at work that remind me of my daughter. Skinny, all legs, with thick chestnut hair. Every little girl of around eleven who was skinny and had that auburn chestnut hair used to remind me of my daughter.
I never thought it would be the last time I saw her. She was going for the weekend with her dad, and I had just taken her to LA to a Hillary Duff concert. I bought her all the stuff: Hillary Duff t-shirt, sweat shirt, purse, because I felt so bad for the pain her dad's and my separation was causing her.
She was upset with me when she left. I think I'd asked her to clean her room and she exploded at me and left in a huff when her dad drove up. She left all the Hillary Duff things behind.
My daughter was in fifth grade--had just graduated actually, and turned eleven, the last time I saw her.
I see little girls every day at work that remind me of my daughter. Skinny, all legs, with thick chestnut hair. Every little girl of around eleven who was skinny and had that auburn chestnut hair used to remind me of my daughter.
I never thought it would be the last time I saw her. She was going for the weekend with her dad, and I had just taken her to LA to a Hillary Duff concert. I bought her all the stuff: Hillary Duff t-shirt, sweat shirt, purse, because I felt so bad for the pain her dad's and my separation was causing her.
She was upset with me when she left. I think I'd asked her to clean her room and she exploded at me and left in a huff when her dad drove up. She left all the Hillary Duff things behind.
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