The Things I Should Have Said | #BehindTheBlogger


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I can remember what the door of the car looked like as we wound around the mountains of Colorado. I don’t really remember if it was dark outside or if the memory is just so dark that it feels dark in my heart but everything in the memory is that of gray. A black and white that can’t be duplicated in photo. I remember looking at the door handle and feeling the car juggle my body around and then I remember he was gone and I knew he was never coming back.

My parents divorced when I was very young and my biological father is/was a bad man. I like to think in the years since he was so awful to my mother, that he’s changed but I know better from conversations with my half brother. I saw him periodically growing up. I remember a brief visit at Easter and car ride with blankets from our mother’s home to his, almost an hour away. I remember racecars and Camel cigarettes and two tiny boys who were my brothers. I remember all the mean from that house and all the sad when I knew I’d never see him or the tiny brothers again when he created an ugly scene in the San Jose airport.

I also remember how it felt to know your parent didn’t want you. I still know, with the full burn of a fresh wound because I think about it looking at my own children. I think about it more then I probably should.

Sometime ago he tried reconnecting with me on facebook. It felt uneasy and sad and I can remember the hurt I felt when he called me by a childhood nickname that means nothing now but did then. He told me I take after a man who I knew only bad about. The only stories I’d ever heard were of suicide and sadness and now he was comparing me to him. He asked about my kids and I told him and he asked about my brother and I told him only a little because I almost felt like he didn’t deserve to know him.

But I was kind. As kind as I could be. To a man who left me so damaged that I am almost 40 and I can’t help but feel worthless. There was so much I should of said to him. That I didn’t because I don’t want to hurt people, just because they’ve hurt me.

The things I should have said to him, GO AWAY. You don’t get the privilege of knowing my beautiful children. A perfect stranger stepped up to be my dad and HE gets the privilege of being their Grandpa. You don’t. Ever. I shouldn’t have to share their names with you because a REAL DAD doesn’t walk away from their kids and so they get to know their grandkids. A real parents doesn’t  let kids feel worthless into their adult life. A real dad sticks around when there is no money and when they hate the other parent because real parents do whatever it takes to be a part of their children’s lives. Love doesn’t come from money, love comes in time spent and you missed out. You don’t  get to know my kids. Ever. It’s the one thing I can’t bend on.

There is so much I should of said and instead, I gave you grace. I don’t know if it’s true but there is suppose to be healing in forgiveness and I am choosing to forgive you but never forget.

I should of said, I’m sorry but you’re not privy to my life anymore. But I felt like grace should win.

Sometime last year I unfriended him. I haven’t looked back. I feel sad for him. And for what he misses. And someday just saying the words, words he’ll never read are enough to begin to let go. I can’t imagine leaving my kids. I can thank him for teaching me that lesson. I know what not to do to my kids…

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Hi! I’m Gail, the voice behind Mimicking Motherhood. I started blogging after the birth of my 2nd child as a way to connect with far away family. Things have definitely changed since then. Now, mama to five, this is a place to help connect with other mothers, who feel like me.I love to make and write all while trying to figure out how to be myself in the world of anxiety and depression. Glad you stopped by.

Baby you can drive my car..

1982 Honda CivicMy first car was actually a VW Fox. I couldn’t remember the year though and well, hated it. The heat never worked and it had this weird, fake feeling leather that the old Volkswagens had and I sort of feel, still do.

I traded it in for a VW Cabriolet. It died and after a series of stupid, crappy vehicles, I landed this beauty. Only my brother and I painted mine black with pink racing stripes. I loved that car.

It had probably 200,000 miles on it. The radio worked sometimes but it was the best car I’d ever had. I only had to get rid of it when Devlynn’s car seat wouldn’t fit in the back. They were much bigger than and a 1982 Honda Civic has a tiny back seat.

I handed my little Civic over to someone for 300.00 and moved onto motherhood.

Just like that.

As an adult I’ve had a few different rides. A white jeep kindly gifted to us from my in laws. It was stolen on New Year’s Eve and when it was recovered I was too afraid to drive it again. My sister in law helped us get a mini van. It was purple and felt horrible and perfect all at the same time. Buying a minivan made me feel like I was never going to be be cool again. I may never have been cool to start with though. The purple monster served us well, driving us two and from Pennsylvania and then finally it was the van that brought us here to live. The jury is still out on if it brought us home.

As many Dodge’s do, the transmission fell out and I took it too a junk yard, thanking it for it’s service and crawled into van number two. The worst car I’ve ever driven in my life. Never have I been so happy to see a flashing check engine, knowing it meant the end. That brought the Explorer. The car I loved, the car that died. The car that led me to the stupidest van known to man.

Okay that might be an exaggeration.

Last year we leased “the” van. We’ve named him Clark even though I still don’t love him enough to call him by name. He’s brand new and I don’t ever have to worry about him breaking down but not only did he come with a car payment. He came with shame. And utter uncoolness.

Minivan soccer mom, in the minivan that every single mother in North America drives. Except mine doesn’t have a DVD player or automatic doors. Because the jokes on me. (I do confess I hate those doors so really, I am okay with it except mornings at preschool when I feel silly to remind the poor preschool teachers that they have to shut it themselves. Insert embarrassed face).

I should preface that it’s a good van. And as I said, I don’t ever worry it will leave me stranded on the road. I have both peace of mind in good mechanics and Honda Care but there is something to be said about turning in your hot pink hair and picking up a set of minivan keys.

I sold out for safety. I sold out.

I might be having a midlife crisis I realize.

But I didn’t say that outloud.

I’m now searching for Devlynn’s first car. We’ve a small budget and I hear her say a lot how bad she wants a Jeep. She’s not getting one but hey, a teenager can dream. I think back to how great it was to have a first car. I’m excited for her to feel the indescribable feelings of freedom that comes along with being handed your first set of keys. Hopefully she won’t hate me when I ask her to pick up milk…. or drive her brothers to practice.

I hope she finds a car she loves. That she can remember fondly and google should she ever have a midlife car crisis. I have so many fond memories in that car. So so many.

 

 

Hi! I’m Gail, the voice behind Mimicking Motherhood. I started blogging after the birth of my 2nd child as a way to connect with far away family. Things have definitely changed since then. Now, mama to five, this is a place to help connect with other mothers, who feel like me.I love to make and write all while trying to figure out how to be myself in the world of anxiety and depression. Glad you stopped by.

Hello, I am a hypocondriac

imageI never go to the doctor. Ever. I hate it. I even wait till 12+ weeks when I am pregnant. It’s just not my thing. At all. So this last week when I woke up with chest pain and short breath, you knew I didn’t feel well when I couldn’t get to the doctor’s office fast enough. I thought to myself, “great, I have pneumonia and if I don’t get it treated, they’ll put me in the hospital and my house will fall apart”. And drove me and the babies to the closest urgent care. Yoga pants, bed head and all.

I thought they’d listen to my lungs, give me a prescription and send me on my way.

Boy was I wrong.

When you go into any kind of medical building and you poorly word how you’re feeling with things like “chest pain” and soreness in you arms followed by trouble breathing, they rush you in for an EKG followed quickly by a chest xray.

I can knock that one off my bucket list.

Now imagine me though, sort of shocked, not feeling well, with my three and one year old, getting an ekg. Also mix in the fact I am still nursing and that you can’t have a underwire bra on with an EKG and you end up with breastmilk, screaming toddlers and pleading to all things holy, just to go home.

I was not having a heart attack. I don’t even have a little bit of fluid in my lungs. It’s just Costochondritis and it’s pretty much nothing. I’m a hypochondriac. You could tell by how the nurses looked at me. Ugh the worst.

My chest still hurts. The doctor said it had lots to do with toting around my monster one year old. I don’t think it helps I still hold Dexter as much as he’ll let me. And age. I guess sometimes you don’t realize how much your body has aged.

All and all it wasn’t that fun and I don’t think I will be so eager to go in again.

Health care is so scary. You worry if you don’t go in, something could be terribly wrong but if you do go in and it’s nothing, I always worry they think I am insane. The anxiety talking I realize. But I still wonder. I often wonder why some of *us* get so wrapped up in what people think about us. And why, when most people stop caring, I still do. Better to get looked at, better safe the sorry, they say but I can’t get past the “what if they think I am crazy”. I almost had Davis in the car because I so doubted myself.

I’ve decided to start the doula program this summer. I can’t however decided whether I should do a certified program or a postpartum program. I worry that if I work with woman before and during labor and delivery, I won’t have the know how to teach them to trust their own bodies. I couldn’t ever trust mine. I think my poor husband was ready to deliver our babies in the bathroom because I was so hesitant to call and “bother” anyone. I don’t ever want my mothers to feel like that. But if I couldn’t learn to trust myself, how do I teach them? And I really want to work in the birth arts. I really want to help women and families have the births they want. Especially having seen bother my sister and sister in laws wonky hospital deliveries. But will I be good enough?

I have also waffled with the idea of working as a postpartum doula but focusing special attention on mama’s who’ve lost their little ones. I think there is perhaps a special needs for care in that field. To have a “friend” who knows what to say and how to help. To be there as a physical and emotional support. I’ve only done a little research on it but found little. And as strange as people may find it, I have always had a calling to work with those with loss. It takes all kinds, all hearts and mine is with those mamas.

Making these big leaps is hard for me. I fear failing because I feel like I’ve failed at everything. And I just want to do good… I just don’t know where to start.

Hi! I’m Gail, the voice behind Mimicking Motherhood. I started blogging after the birth of my 2nd child as a way to connect with far away family. Things have definitely changed since then. Now, mama to five, this is a place to help connect with other mothers, who feel like me.I love to make and write all while trying to figure out how to be myself in the world of anxiety and depression. Glad you stopped by.