Let me start by saying this, I knew what it took to be a mom. I knew what it took to be married. I knew what you would have to sacrifice to do both of these. What I wasn’t prepared for was Love not being enough.
After leaving my husband for the first time. I was so scared. I had so many questions that were scary. Could I make it on my own supporting a child by myself? Would anyone want me as a friend, as a girlfriend, as a wife, after leaving him? Would I make my son proud of me?
I decided to give it a good honest try. Putting 100% into everything. I managed to get a job, get daycare for my son, have spending money, got a gym membership, made friends, went on a vacation, etc. I was making it. Of course, I wasn’t paying hardly any bills. I was living with my dad and his girlfriend in her house.
Which if you know women, it’s hard for two women to live under one roof. So I eventually started getting the feeling that I was wearing out my welcome as I started partying and hanging out with friends on the weekends. But I made a promise to my son, I will be here when you wake up. So if I was going out, I would leave after he was fully asleep, and had until 6 AM to get back home. I was never late. However, my dad felt that a mother should never stay out past 2 AM. My dad felt that I needed to connect with my son and keep a routine with him. Such as having dinner with him at the kitchen table.
He was starting to make me feel like a failure. I moved into my own townhouse. Not in White Haven like my dad said. I moved into my own place across the street from the airport. Which I later learned was in the heart of White Haven. It took me 24 hours to realize that I was not welcome in my complex. After two police reports of vandalism and theft, I moved out 3 months later. But it ended up costing me, well a judgment anyways, of $16,000. This number was calculate by the attorneys and the apartment complex due to extensive water damaged caused from over flowing a bath tub. (WRONG, this shit was there before I moved in). Needless to say, I felt like a failure. I moved out, got fired from my job and was on the verge of being homeless with my son. Wondering where my “friends” were.
My dad encouraged me to take back my husband because I had a kid with him and Kenny needed him. Plus, my husband was on my back that he made serious changes in 10 months. The moment he got off the bus, I knew it wasn’t going to work out. But I decided to give him another chance, for the sake of Kenny. My husband didn’t know what my motivations were.
I was religious about taking my birth control. I didn’t want to have another baby with him. I didn’t want to bite off more then I could chew. Things were going good between us. He even quite smoking. He found a job and saved up some money to actually take me out for my birthday. We went to a bar, and actually got to have our first real slow dance. After 7 drinks, my guard was dropped, and I remember the night, clear as day. Because that was the first time I had slept with him since we got back together. On my birthday.
2-1/2 months later I had a dream about telling my son to go back to bed and don’t wake your sister up. When I went into check on him, I tucked in a blonde haired, blue eyed baby girl into her white crib. When I woke up, I took a pregnancy test and found out that I was pregnant. I knew right away it was a baby girl.
Telling my husband that I was pregnant was difficult, much like everything else. By this time, the honeymoon phase wore off. It was back to the same ol “you’re a bitch”, “You fucking cunt”, “Don’t worry about what I’m doing” every day.
Yelling and fighting, screaming and crying, stressing and worrying. So I told him, “I’m pregnant” and his response was, “We don’t need another kid Alena!” and that’s when I realized, God gave me this baby and showed me what she looked like because he wanted me to have her, adore her, cherish her. I was not going to end her life. From that moment on it became a constant struggle to keep her apart of the family.
A constant struggle to keep my family together. To look normal, to feel normal, and to be pregnant, when days would go by when Ken would use the money to feed his pot addiction rather then buying groceries for his pregnant wife and growing son.
But what could I do? Where could I go? So I bit the bullet and sacrificed my body, my mind and my sanity at times, to growing this baby inside of me. She had to endure a racing heart beat rather then the calming effects that a normal heart beat would have. She had to listen to loud abrupt noises instead of mellow and soothing sounds of a crooning family. She didn’t get to sleep when she wanted, her hours were all backwards because her mommy was up until 5 AM waiting for daddy to come home.
The doctor told me to get rest, stop worrying and lower my stress or I would go into labor early. That was like asking me to make the world spin in the opposite direction. Impossible! After three days in the hospital I finally held my baby. Only to have her whisked away because I was having an allergic reaction to the epidural. I didn’t get to breast feed her like I wanted to. I didn’t get to bond with her like I needed to. She spent the first 24 hours in the nursery with the nurses while I recovered.
Much like my prom, I was sitting in the hospital room, waiting on my husband to come pick us up and take us home. He never showed. I had to have my dad’s girlfriend take us home. When my husband did arrive 4 hours later, I found out that his co worker was more important then his newborn daughter and wife. He was taking his friend to go score some weed so they could get high later.
From day one, I could never make Aubry satisfied. I couldn’t get her to latch on properly. It was as if my touch was repellant to her. So I decided to get on a breast pump EVERY 2 hours for 3 months to give her my breast milk. To allow some kind of bond with her. I rocked her, cradled her, bathed her, feed her, walked with her, sang to her, bounced her, pleaded with her, begged her to stop crying. Doctors said she was fine. No croop, no colic, nothing. The moment she was held by my husband, she swooned, and cooed and laughed. I was jealous. Was my time with her over already. Would I only get to hold her in my womb rather then my arms?
As she grew up, I accepted the limitations that she put on our relationship. I was ok with being at an arms distance. Because I would sneek into her room and watch her sleep and I got quite skillful at lifting her with out waking her and cuddling her. Running my hands along her cheek, kissing her perfect lips, smelling her precious scent. She didn’t know it, but I loved her more then she knew.
I would stay in these moments forever if I could. Sometimes, the sunlight would remind me that she would be waking up soon and I needed sleep. Our days together were hard and long.
It wasn’t until I left my husband for good that she needed me. She needed the change from what she was use to. I didn’t leave their father just because I didn’t love him any more, I left him because he had done so much damage already, by just being who he was. I had to stop the pain before the kids realized what an excuse it would cause for them.
The yelling and fighting, screaming and crying, stressing and worrying continued. Only this time, It wasn’t between me and my husband. It was between my daughter and I. Therapist told me, “You didn’t get a chance to bond with her, so you are taking out the failure of your marriage on her”, “You treat her differently then you do your son. You don’t love her the same and it’s oblivious.” I stopped going to therapy.
And now, as I watched my daughter demand my nephew to share his lunch with her because her choice of “just eating a salad” as she had requested was no longer what she desired. I began to feel that the nightmare was never going to end. It was just getting bigger and bigger every birthday.
As I watched through the glass on the front door to my house, the door that my daughter locked, and was not going to let me in. She had locked me out…completely. As she sat in the recliner eating chocolate candies demanding that she’s not going to take a nap. I wanted to cry. I wanted to give up. But the anger in me won. I told her to unlock the door that she had one last chance. She sat there sure as shit, beaming with delight that I couldn’t get in. She didn’t budge. So I pulled out my key and unlocked the door, bent her over my knee and spanked her.
I physically caused her to feel pain. I used my anger and took it out on her. I made my baby cry. But the hurt didn’t stop, she ran to her room demanding that she wanted a new mom. She didn’t like the one she has.
Every day of her life she has cried. Never letting one day pass with out a tear. Wither it be from a childhood injury or emotional pain or even just plain not being satisfied, she has cried. She has slammed doors, she has punched walls, she has said the words “I hate you” to at least everyone in the family, she has hurt the cat that only loves her.
I don’t know how to stop it, I don’t know how to love her without just giving into her. To stop the crying, stop the yelling, stop the pain. Give her what she is asking for, just to see her happy. See her smile. And she’s only 5 years old.