Daggers come in all shapes. Little steel edges are sharpened to cut through veins, and each slashing causes a little blood and a lot of hurt. I’ve read the words. I’ve heard the snide remarks. I’ve been passed over and discounted.
You only have one. You’re not a real mother.
God, you’re so lucky to only have the one.
Well, imagine having more than one. You have no idea how hard it is.
Brass knuckles punch my heart. I always bite my tongue. No, I can’t imagine. Lucky? I came into this world on a windy Friday the 13th. Luck blew past me on the day of my birth.
I do know I changed the diapers. I sat up with the colic. The pain-filled screaming began every Tuesday night around 11 p.m. It lasted for two months. Those mind numbing cries would play continuously till 7 a.m. At the 3 o’clock hour, I would sat my child in his bassinet and walk outside to sob. I cried to God. I pleaded with my creator to help my child. I still dread a Tuesday, even today. Those hellish nightmares lasted till Sunday. Monday would bring about a tired, weary eyed child; my child. And, I’m not a mother.
I’ve held a child with a 103 temperature. When it approached a higher number, I sat the little boy in a cool bath. I cried right along with him. My child was sick. I couldn’t fix him. All I could do was sit up and watch him inhale, exhale. Not sleeping night after repetitive night. And, I’m not a real mother.
They say, “Wow, she is a decent parent.” I made mistakes in my past. I see no need to hide them. Johnny Cash sings, “What’s down in the dark will be brought to the light.”
They were mistakes I am not proud of, and I accept the choices I made. I hold in my hand the accountability for each poor decision I snorted or swallowed. Today, once decade old friends cast out a child. The little boy who is mine is not invited to cookouts or pool parties. His mom is THAT sinner. For three years, I was lost. It will never matter how much time that I’ve been found, my child will forever pay the piper due to my mistakes. A small town never forgives transgressions. And, I’m not a mother.
One child doesn’t entitle you to the “Mama” label. It doesn’t matter that you don’t sleep. It doesn’t matter how hard you work to ensure your baby has clothes to wear to Sunday church. As a non-Mama, I’m always feeling the toes of his shoes, checking for the next size. Little boys feet grow so fast. Summers are a whirlwind and winter coats will be needed soon. It is an October worry that I have in July. And, I’m not a mother.
The little boy has almost outgrown a crib. A bigger room with play areas is planned. A mushroom tent will be a spot to hide and read. A bookshelf is ever expanding. A little area for music and crayons is plotted. A room decorated with trees, clouds, and dandelions will be here shortly. A big boy room with a blue quilt placed across a big bed. And, I’m not a mother.
At night, a little boy is placed in his bed after he is read two to four stories and sung his favorite night time songs.
“Goodnight, baby. I love you.”
“Night-Night, Mama. Wuv you.”
To the peering eyes with sharp daggers, I may not be your caliber of mother. But, a little boy says “Come here, Mama.” And, I am his mother. I will always be the lady he knows as a Mama. I am a mother to someone.
I am HIS MOTHER.
I will always be his Misfit Mama.