129A

In retrospect, I really was out here in 2014 totally unprepared for parenting. I got pregnant in the spring of that year, got clean a week after finding out I was pregnant, bought the baby books and everything they said expecting mother’s should have, then put all of those materials on a shelf and forgot about them. I figured 9 months was awhile to figure things out, nope. I went to work, came home, ate whatever sounded good in that moment, and hoped his dad would pull it together before the baby arrive while numbing the chaos of my life with Grey’s Anatomy.

By the time baby boy arrived I had read zero books, took zero classes, and had zero bags packed. We were scrambling to grasp anything that felt grounded. We were granted graces as many people felt bad in someway or another for the fact that our son came 7 weeks early, had to spend about a month in the NICU, that we didn’t have as much money as we felt we needed, and struggled to find our footing. I am certain that is a common thing amongst new parents, albeit… our situation varied slightly from those around us. We were both scared, we were both still traumatized from our own upbringings, and we were both still clinging to masks that weren’t meant for us. We argued regularly, I grew to be afraid of him, we both showed the worst of ourselves. When we finally split up I felt relief and fear all in the same breath. I was not prepared for this. I was not prepared to be a single mother. I wasn’t even sure if I was a good mother. Who would bring a child into a world like this? One filled with boozey hazes that are more cherished than wellbeing, words filled with hatred and bitterness, passive aggressive filled with poison and easy to hide behind. What sane person would involve a child in such mess? Me. I felt like the insane one.

I was diagnosed with PTSD (from the circumstances of the birth) and PPD, then shortly after I found out I had ADHD. I made efforts at first to learn about each ailment, but then the woman who brought me into this world was at every turn telling me that me being upset or attributing any of my problems to these three categories was making excuses for myself and painting myself to be a victim (a word I NEVER used for myself, but she loved stamping on me). At that time I wasn’t allowed, by her standard (that I cared way too much about), to take time to be upset about what had happened in my life because, according to her, it was all my fault and only returning to the church could save my son and I because I clearly was a failure (she loved reminding me of all the L’s I’ve taken and mistakes I’ve made, mostly I think she just liked me apologizing over and over and over again because it mildly satisfied something she didn’t receive growing up so she had to take it out on me to feel better about herself).

I have spent an embarrassing amount of time worrying if I am a good mom or not. It’s probably my most consistent thought. Almost 11 years deep into parenting and I still wonder. For the most part I feel I have done right by him- I always tell him the truth (even when it’s hard), I give him autonomy to make his own decisions, I run our little duo of a family in a democratic way because it’s not just me here… it’s him too and he should have some say in how things go right now. Just because he’s little doesn’t mean he should just listen to everything I say, he should question me and I let him. I taught him about context by using cuss words because it made him laugh and understand the concept. I taught him how to use words before throwing hands; more importantly, he already knows when it is appropriate and not appropriate to throw hands. We have had countless talks about why people behave the way they do, he is VERY aware of discrimination and capitalism (he speaks on it regularly), he’s also empathetic and understanding while exercising healthy boundaries. Overall, I would say I am doing pretty good at mothering. Then days like today happen where I try to give him constructive criticism and he gets upset while stuck in a functional freeze. Days like this gut me while I fight the voice in my head (that sounds identical to the woman who brought me into this world) that reiterates how awful of a mother I am. I know it’s a falsity due to my son being way more confident and sound than I was, it’s just another one of those inherited demons I have to duke it out with. Doesn’t make it an easier to deal with, but I put my gloves on every time to go a few rounds.

I sit and reflect on what I could have done better or different, I also apologize for any tone or any looks or moment that could have made him question our bond or the depths of my undying love for him. I also like to remind myself on days like this we are still learning together. The day did not go as planned for us today; it ended up being a hour car ride of him crying and in functional freeze while I got frustrated that he wouldn’t vocalize for himself. Ultimately he ended up finding the freedom in screaming to get all the negative and icky feelings out of his system rather than letting them condense in his soul. By the time we got home we were laughing about how good it felt to cry and scream at the same time, how much it made us feel better to just get it out of our bodies. I told him that tech was in timeout because I thought it would be more cathartic to journal about everything that happened in the car and reflect with himself on what next steps should be now that part of the heaviness he holds has been released.

It is horribly difficult to not just scoop him up into some blankets and hide him away from the hardest truths of life. I didn’t want him to know the trauma I knew, I didn’t want him growing up feeling invisible or unloved by his own family, I didn’t want him to know what functional freeze felt like, I didn’t want him to know any of the darkest parts of existence. As much as I bust my ass to fight the inherited demons so he won’t have to, I can’t stop his own demons from showing face. He’s 10 and what he has experienced in these first 10 years no child should have to endure. There have been beautiful moments and terrifying, heartbreaking moments. He has faced dark nights that I wanted to shield him from, but I can’t. Life is duality and in order for him to be successful (as in… happy, confident, sound of mind) in this life he will have to master both light and darkness. I cannot stop what is meant for him, I can only try to prepare him best I can for whatever or whomever may come his way.

With that being said, I am kind of happy that I never got around to reading the books. I literally put parenting, FULLY, in the “Figure It Out As I Go” category of my brain rather than seeking advice from those who came before me or society. Unknowingly, I gave myself permission to grow up with my son. I was only 24 when I gave birth to him… that’s kind of fucking young when I look back on it. I had not healed any part of me yet, wasn’t confident in myself, and struggled with my identity immensely. I had no business bringing a child into this world but I did and being his mom is the best thing to ever happen to me. He inspires every positive step forward I take. I am almost two years sober from alcohol because of him. I am more patient because of him. I am more creative because of him. I understand the world around me better because he exists in it with me. He is my hero, my muse, my motivation, my legacy. I just hope he is as proud to be my son as I am to be his mom. Life is messy, hard to navigate sometimes, and chaotically beautiful when we let it be.

I hope he stands unafraid of what may come for him because he knows how loved he is and that Mommy’s love transcends time and space to always guide him back to the light.

Forever and always, I want him to know how important his existence is and how much him being a part of this life matters.

Isn’t that the whole point of parenting- raising up someone who will best you, go further than you, and do better than you.