want to read a piece of my work..... Here You go! I remember the bitter taste I felt in my mouth every time I spoke of the woman who gave up on being a mother; the woman who dragged my older sister and I through foster homes while our younger sister was placed elsewhere while she drank herself into a pit of despair. It was a bitter taste that only grew stronger the day she just gave up and my sisters and I were placed up for adoption. It came, when I was eight and my sister twelve, in the form of a letter of apology. Gee thanks! I can’t say that the new world was much better than the foster care system. My older sister was adopted into the same home and that was my only form of solace. My new mother resented me eventually for not being able to measure up to the little girl she always wanted and my new father was confused by my teenager attitude. I couldn’t help check of the days until I could escape from my prison. As I started to tally, I grew even bitterer of the woman who bore me. I couldn’t even label her as mother anymore. I was envious of my friends and their families and constantly cursed God for throwing me the short end of the straw. Bitter slowly mixed with angry into a nearly toxic cocktail. I drank it with ease and ran from my demons as soon as I could. It was, of course all HER fault; this nameless mother who had set me up for failure. Soon, I was down the path to failure myself. I worked to provide myself with whatever it was that would, for the moment take the bitter away. It was, after all what those around me could expect from a child like me who had been handed so much in such a short time. I fed on their pity and it made it somewhat bitter sweet. Eventually, in my path to destruction, I found myself at a crossroads. On one side, a life free to continue on the same path I was already on and the other a tiny pink plus sign. I was pregnant. Not only was I pregnant, but I was alone and homeless. I had no family to turn to and no idea how to be a mother. Somehow, none of it mattered anymore. Instantly, all I could think of was this small child that was growing in me that didn’t ask to be born. I struggled, boy did I struggle. Every moment I struggled harder the more the bitterness grew; after all if I could do it, she could’ve too. I could only pray every day that my child would be born into my world healthy. At three months pregnant and already once having a miscarriage scare, I woke in a puddle of blood. I screamed and cried the whole way to the hospital and as I arrived a nurse cuddled me in her lap and rocked me in her arms like a small child. I grasped onto this stranger as her and I sat cuddled until the doctors returned to tell me my baby was fine, but I would have to remain on bed rest because I had hemorrhaged. I, however, was alone and if I was going to make any sort of life for my child, I would have to continue to work. I negotiated with God and hoped that he would carry me through this; it was him and I, after all. Two other times during my pregnancy my baby’s life was on the line. I kept pushing and after three days of labor and a cesarean my beautiful, almost nine pound baby was born. I was tired and worried. How do I do this? As soon as I started to get bitter and doubt myself again, the doctors rushed my seemingly healthy baby to Children’s hospital with what seemed a severe digestive issue. I could barely walk, but I made my way to the hospital to be with her. The whole way I started to negotiate with God again. I held her as soon as we arrived and sang, You Are My Sunshine, over and over again through my tears. It wasn’t long before the doctors found nothing wrong with her besides hunger. After the long labor and delivery, she was merely hungry. Life didn’t get easier from there, but I was determined not to give up. When my daughter was a year old, and we were camping in between my job as I waitress, I looked at her and made her a solemn promise to make sure that was the last time we would live on the streets. It was, with sacrifice and hard work, our last time there. Work hours were hard and gruesome, but I came home to my beautiful, healthy child named, Zoey, or life. The bitterness only grew the harder I worked. Not only was I bitter towards the mother who was given a chance to my mother but the mother who bore me as well. One night, closer to Easter a woman, who I was serving dinner handed me a little pamphlet quoting John 3:16 and reminding the reader of God’s sacrifice of his son. I carelessly through this aside, but my mind started to analyze it anyways. I started to really grasp the idea of God giving his son for us. What sacrifice that had to be; a sacrifice I knew I would die before making myself. The mire thought of my daughter not being with me made my heart hurt. The thought of watching my child suffer and die, even if it was better in heaven made my stomach turn and my heart heavy. Then it dawned on me, was that the same sacrifice my own mother had made. Had her own stomach turned at the thought of not being able to see her children? Had she, in her own crossroads made a wrong turn and instead of dragging us along with her, given up for us? My head started to swirl, mixing the cocktail once again, only this time it was neither bitter nor toxic. Somehow, for the first time in my life I felt a physical weight lift off of me. Could God and my mother’s sacrifice truly be compared in the same category? The mixture was at best cloudy. Time passed and I eventually had more children and became a stay at home mother. I was thankful of course, but I was again faced with the struggle of figuring out motherhood. Each day was a test of whatever patience I had. There were days that I would fall to my knees in defeat; where I just wanted to give up. There were days that I started to sound more and more like the mother who had adopted me into her family. Slowly and suddenly I became aware of just how lucky I truly was. The straw that was handed to me was a short one, but it was not without sacrifice. Not only one, but two women had sacrificed themselves for me. The woman who bore me, why could not seem to get ahead, and the woman who could not have children of her own who took children in in hopes to give them love, both had sacrificed for me! Now, this was not a perfect love story with a happily ever after ending, but I find as life continues, not many are. Life is struggle, and pain, and sacrifice. It is also beautiful, loving, and sacrifice. It is whatever story you want to believe. It is a sour lemon that if a little sugar is added becomes a sweet refreshing drink. And motherhood, in all its wonder, is never perfect, but I am lucky enough to have to imperfect woman that sacrificed their lives that I may have a chance. That’s all I ever wanted to be in a mother.
Posted on: Thu, 31 Jul 2014 01:08:54 +0000
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