I started trying to get pregnant when I was 16 years old. I was a sick little girl, and my reasoning was that if I had a baby, then there would be one person who HAD to love me, no matter what. I was a stupid, sick girl.
I actually GOT pregnant when I was 18 years old. Son #1 was born just a few months after my 19th birthday. Turns out, having a baby wasn’t really all that much fun. He cried, a LOT. His father cried a lot too. He was so jealous of this “crying little thing that takes up all of your time” that I was caught in the middle of a tornado of misery. He got over his jealousy though, and ended up being a good father. A better father than I was a mother, for sure.
When Son #1 was three, I left his father (for the second time in our short marriage), and started a several month long drinking and drugging binge that included a few boyfriends and a few girlfriends. During this time, Son #1 was pretty much left with my parents 24/7. Through some weird twist of fate, I ended up having a threesome with one of my girlfriends and my estranged husband. Guess what happened? Son #2.
Son #2 changed everything, at least for a good while. I fell in love with him, and I fell in love with Son #1 in a way that I hadn’t before. I fell in love with their interactions with one another, and the bond that was growing between them. Son #2’s first words were “There you go Bubba” (more like Day-Go-Bubba) because that was what Son #1 said to him 100 times a day when he was giving him his pacifier, bottle, toy, or whatever Son #2 needed to be happy.
But…….. My marriage was a shambles. This is not the post to go into it, but by the time Son #2 was a year old, their father and I had split for the last time. It was bad, we both ended up going to jail for trying to kill each other.
So I left, moved back to Texas, started school. We had a system, the three of us, and it was us against the world. They were my little men, and we could conquer anything. I was Mom of the year, going to every school function, active in the PTA, bringing our snake to show and tell every year, Birthday parties. Mine was the house that always had a gallon of kool-aid in the fridge, and the yard was littered with bicycles and sports equipment, and every kid in the neighborhood. Every night we read out of a book. When the books ran out, we told the story of The Two Little Boys, and they would tell me about their day (or, sometimes, the day they wished they had).
And then…. always a fucking and then in my stories… almost always meaning “And then I fucked it all up”
And then, through a series of events that included 9/11, I tried Meth. I was hooked, instantly. Within two months I was using a needle. During my year long Meth binge, I spent upwards of $20,000 on drugs. I had nothing left, nothing at all, and the most important thing that I had lost was my children.
CPS didn’t come in and take them. There are no reports on file of me being abusive or neglectful. Because I wasn’t, not in the legal sense. While I abandoned them in every other sense: physical, psychological, emotional, according to the law, I had left them with responsible caretakers. Crazy huh?
So my parents arranged for the boys to go live with their father, and that is where they’ve been for the last decade. They are thriving, and my relationship with both of them is far closer and more respectful on both sides than it ever was when they were my little men.
But I know that I am not much of a mother. I was, for a short period of time, but I killed that girl when I killed the rest of myself, shot in the head through a hole in my arm. I don’t deserve a phone call, much less a gift or card. But I sure hope I get one, I really really do.