My first trip to rehab, back in 1992, I learned about “drug dreams”. I’d have this very vivid dream of getting high. When I woke up with a start, I’d check myself, my surroundings, my memory of the previous few hours to discern whether or not it was a dream.
Last night, I had a dream about The Kid. Not that I was parenting, but we were together. Talking, laughing. It was comfortable & easy. I woke up smiling & the normal household sounds smacked the dream from my head. It was just a dream, stupid.
Because I was stupid, I gave my son to strangers. I can’t even believe my own bullshit at this moment of “being the good girl trying to do the good thing”. The bottom line, I was stupid. Women before me raised children without a partner, women after. Like childbirth, it happens every day, and has from the beginning of time. I couldn’t see the forest for the trees. I mean, a year beyond the unplanned pregnancy.
A few years after The Kid was born, I got married. I waited desperately to have kids, to legitimize my own status: A REAL MOM. I left my first husband for several reasons, one of which was that it appeared he didn’t want children with me. I moved & futzed around, treating my body more like a roller coaster than a temple. Then the infertility.
several days ago, while i was working in the store, two women came in with their 6 month olds. i hated them on sight. faux hippie, tanning bed brown, bottle blondes with their clearly adorable children. i hated them all. kids too. (sorry babies) these stupid plastic bitches co-opting my style & having the nerve to bring their babies to my very public place of employment. later on i huffed & puffed & blew down the eardrums of those closest to me.
Jealousy? That shit will kill you, girl. I know, neocortex, STFU.
Whether it’s some simple thing my body can’t do, or something I DID to my body while riding the previously mentioned roller-coaster, the result is the same. I feel cheated, and stuck in No Mom’s Land.
I wanted to opportunity to buy overpriced onesies with kickass graphics. I know it’s not practical, but who gives a shit? I wanted to dance to motown classics in my living room holding The Baby, singing. I wanted to be the comforter, the tear wiper. I wanted to know that those smiles in the photos were for ME. I wanted to watch my husband fall in love with our perfect little terror (I mean, gorgeous spawn). I wanted to teach little Malcolm or Ophelia the mysteries of the universe. And for the love of salsa, I wanted to obtain Membership to the Mommy Blogger Club.
This has been eating away at me, in delicate bites, For years.
For the first time, maybe I’m reaping what I’ve sown. It’s a hell of a harvest. Black, bitter, hard to swallow.