A son’s pain

As a parent, it is very hard to watch one of your children struggle. You want to somehow fix whatever they are struggling with. While some struggles are good for children to experience and build character, other struggles can feel unnecessary and pull at your heart strings. It is especially hard to watch your child struggle when that struggle is with the relationship with their own dad.
My oldest had a difficult relationship with his dad long before his father and I separated. In fact, I’d say that their relationship began to strain around the time my oldest turned four. I can remember constantly warning my husband that he was going to ruin his relationship with our oldest from early on. He would expect too much of our oldest at an early age, far more than he was developmentally able to handle. My ex expected our son to somehow, be more mature and take on more responsibility because he was the older brother, even though he was only two when he first became an older brother. He was always harsher with our oldest and it was obvious to many who observed them together. It didn’t help that our oldest had behavioral issues and was a lot like his dad.
As my son got older, the relationship between him and his father became more strained. His dad could be very mean to him, yelled at him a lot, and on occasion, would get physically rough with our oldest. When our oldest was about 8 years old, he asked me to write a note to his dad to tell him that he was scared of him. My then husband had a lot of his own issues that spilled over into his relationship with our oldest, who took the brunt of his father’s anger and frustration.
After his dad left the house, my oldest seemed to be more relaxed at home and happy. One day, as we were cleaning out the car, prompted by something my son’s therapist said, I asked my oldest how he felt about his dad not living with us anymore. What my oldest son told me broke my heart in so many ways. He told me that he liked it better because everyone seemed happier and there was less fighting in general in the house. He said that he didn’t really miss his dad because he never really had a good relationship with him and that he really wanted a new, different dad, one who loved him and accepted him for who he is. I sat there next to him, listening stoically, wanting nothing more than to burst into tears at these words. My eleven-year-old son perceived his dad as someone who didn’t love him or support him. He told me he wanted a dad that would play with him and support him and treat him better. How did I ever let things between them get this bad? Why hadn’t these two managed to bond? Why did my son feel so unloved by his own father? I reassured him that his dad did indeed love him, but that sometimes he had a hard time showing it. That didn’t seem to easy my son’s mind.
Yesterday was Father’s Day, the first Father’s Day since my marriage completely fell apart. My children’s father wasn’t sure that he wanted to see them yesterday. I really wanted to hate him for it, but I knew why. Still, I was heartbroken for my boys and decided to not even tell them it was Father’s Day if they weren’t going to get to celebrate with their dad. After some tearful pleading, I convinced their dad to see them for a brief time, knowing my second and fourth child would really want to be with him on this day. What I hadn’t considered was how my oldest would feel about this day in which he was supposed to celebrate the father, who he had a very difficult relationship with. It wasn’t until we reached the restaurant, which we were meeting his dad at, that I realized just how hard it was on my oldest.
My oldest began acting out immediately. He was bothering his brothers and misbehaving, trying to make everyone miserable. Upon looking closer at his behavior, I realized he was feeling miserable and wanted everyone else to feel the way he did. He was angry and confused about his feelings. I asked him about how he was feeling, but he just didn’t know, nor did he know why he was feeling this way. He was visibly upset by the whole situation. After a bit, I pulled him outside to talk about what he might be feeling and why. I talked to him about how I was feeling and reassured him that, even if his dad didn’t know how to show it, he did really love him. I explained to him that, like him, his dad also struggled sometimes. I told him that it was ok to be mad at his dad, and even at me, because I was the one who asked his dad to leave, but what wasn’t ok was how he was dealing with that anger. I told him some ways that I deal with my anger and talked with him about ways that he might want to try to deal with his. In the end, I held him and told him that no matter what, I loved him and would always be there for him. When we were done, we returned to the rest of the family, my oldest son much calmer, but I felt far from calm. My outward appearance may have seemed fine, but inside I was dying. All I wanted to do was go home, lock myself in my room, and sob.
I had to hold back tears as I drove my boys home. I was so heartbroken by the pain that my oldest son was feeling. I was angry and sad and disappointed and was in mama bear mode. I couldn’t protect my son from these feelings or this struggle. I couldn’t take away his pain or change the circumstances. All I could do was be there for my son in his pain and it filled me with pain and sadness.
I don’t know how this story ends. I don’t know what happens from here. I hope and pray that the relationship between my oldest son and his father will be healed eventually, but I honestly don’t know if it will. The only thing that I do know is how painful it is to watch my son experience and navigate his tenuous relationship with his father. This is one struggle that I wish my son did not have.

The giant Teddy Bear that ended my marriage

 

Like most people, my wedding day was one of the best days of my life. It was full of hope, magic, and love. My own wedding caused me to cry at all weddings that I attended after that because it brought back the feelings of happiness and love that I felt on that day. Nothing is better than the way you feel on your wedding day. You hope those feeling will last forever. Things change with time, however, and not all marriages last. That is the reality I am currently trying to deal with in my life.

I love my husband, I always have, pretty much since the day I meet him. After 17 years together and 13 years of marriage though, I am no longer in love with my husband. Our years together have not been easy, especially in the last few years. There has been a lot of pain and disappointment that has taken its toll on our marriage. I continued to stick out the relationship for many years, thinking that if I just hung in there and kept loving him that things would change and get better. They never did, at least not for very long. So, when I told my husband last December that I wanted to sperate, it wasn’t me trying to get his attention in a last-ditch effort to save our marriage, it was me telling him that I was finally done with the marriage. The catalyst for this choice all comes down to a giant stuffed bear.

As I said before, things weren’t good for a long time between my husband and I. I had become a single parent despite being married. He was rarely there, and I could never really depend on him. It had gotten to the point where I would just plan life without him and hope that he would choose to show up. It was easier this way, it relieved some of the constant disappointment that I felt. Last December, when I planned a pre-Christmas trip to Portland for the family, I really didn’t expect my husband to join us, but as it got closer, he seemed so excited to go. I began to include him in the plans and the boys were excited to get to spend some time with their dad. However, when the day came to leave for our trip, my husband was not in our car as we pulled out of the driveway. I was sad and disappointed once again, but I was determined to make this an awesome trip with my boys that they would never forget. I think I did just that. They seemed happy and I definitely spoiled them, probably a little too much out of guilt. I figure that kids are resilient and that I’d kept them so busy with fun that their dad not being there wouldn’t affect them much. I was wrong about that though.

While we were I Portland, we visited Santa, and he told me to take the boys to a special toy store to let them pick out anything they wanted from Santa, so we obeyed. My second oldest, who is currently 9, picked out a giant Teddy Bear that was almost as big as him. He was so excited about his Teddy Bear and still sleeps with it in his bed. As we were driving home from Portland, we talked about our favorite parts of the trip and how much fun we had. My 9-year-old commented that he wished his dad had come and that he couldn’t wait to see him when we got home to tell him all about the trip. All the other boys agreed that they had missed their dad and wished that he had joined us on the trip. They were all very excited to see their dad when we got home. After an extra-long weekend away, they were all very eager to get home. My 9-year-old said that all he wanted to do when he got home was to give his dad a big hug with his giant new Teddy Bear and to hold them both. It was such a sweet idea that really showed how much he’d missed his dad. Then we got home.

My husband came down to greet us and help bring in the bags, but within five minutes of us being home, he had returned to his office to play more video games, something he had been doing all weekend long while we were gone. He disappeared into his office for several hours, only reappearing after the two youngest were already sound asleep and I was about to put the two older boys to bed. He didn’t spend anytime with us that evening, he didn’t listen to the stories from our trip, and he didn’t help me bathe or settle children in after a very exhausting weekend. Instead, he did what he always did, he took care of himself and did what he wanted, which didn’t include his family. It broke my heart to know that his boys were so excited to see him and had missed him so much, but that he clearly didn’t feel the same way. I could see the devastation in my 9-year old’s eyes that he didn’t get to share that hug with his day and his giant stuffed Teddy Bear like he had wanted to so badly. That’s when I knew it was time to for things to change and that I finally needed to make the hard call of ending our marriage.

Over the past few years, I felt like my husband was drowning and I was constantly trying to save him, but instead he was pulling me under with him. In those moments, after our Portland trip, I looked around and realized, we weren’t the only two drowning in that pond. Our kids were there too, and they were barely treading water. I knew I had to let my husband go and get my kids and myself back to the safety of the shore. It was one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever made, but I knew it was the right one and felt such relief after I told him.

Now we are in the messy processing of figuring out how to move forward while trying to keep our kids afloat. It is strange that I struggled for so long about what to do with my marriage, how to fix it, and what was best for my kids only to figure out what we all really needed because of a giant Teddy Bear.

Strong

I am not a Disney Princess. I don’t need to be rescued. I am strong, stronger than I get credit for.

I don’t sit patiently, waiting for permission. I don’t quietly obey. I am my own person. I live life on my own terms. I will not let limitations be set for me or be told what I can and cannot do. I will not be restricted in this life.

I will not willingly spread my legs at your command. I will not be controlled. I will not be guilted into continuing in a broken cycle. I will not be broken.

I will rise-up, out of the ashes, like a Phoenix. I will move on and beyond. I will survive because it is what I do and it is all I know. I will be strong because that is what I am.

I will not play the damsel in distress. I will not let a man define me. I will break free of these chains you constantly use to bind me.

I love you most when you’re asleep

I love having three boys who are only two years apart. I feeling like they are so close and I hope they will be all of their lives. Most of the time they love playing together. The two older boys often want to help with or play with the baby, and he seems to really enjoy them. Every so often I get to witness one of those moments that you wish you could capture forever that just seems to speak to what brotherhood really is.

Like I said before, my two older boys often want to help with the baby. Often times I find them helping without having been asked. Sometimes this isn’t a good thing, like when they try to pick him up or drag him by the foot across the room. Most of the time, however, not only is it helpful, but it is down right cute. I’ll be out of the room trying to finish up a task and hear the baby crying when suddenly he’ll stop. I’ll race into the room expecting to see one of the older boys sitting on his head so that he is unable to cry any more, only to find my oldest singing to the baby or my two and a half year old showing him a book or toy. And even though the baby is just barely 7 months, I think he gets that what his brothers are doing for him is pretty cool. He’s begun to laugh, or cackle I should say, at his brothers constantly, incredibly entertained by them. He lights up when he sees them enter his sight or hears their voices, instead of being terrified of them like you’d think he’d be. He seems to understand that he is loved by his two older brothers and he loves them, and last night he showed it.
For whatever reason, the baby woke round 4:00am and decided to be awake for a little while. I put him in the middle of the bed beside me and a pillow. On the other side of that pillow was not my husband, but was one of the more usual occupants, one of my sons. In this case, it was my two and a half year old. He was sleeping in his favorite position, sprawled horizontally across the bed. His head was resting on the pillow next to the baby and his arm was under his head so that his hand dangled over the pillow. While the baby was playing, he noticed his brother laying there and smiled. Then he saw his brother’s hand and decided to grab it. He laid there staring and smiling at his brother, hand in hand, for 15 minutes, while his older brother slept there completely unaware. It was so sweet that, despite how tired I was and how much my eyes wanted to close, I couldn’t stop watching him.
My two and a half year old then showed his love for his older brother later that day. The two older boys had fallen asleep in the car so I put them both to sleep in the same bed. My two and a half year old woke up first and I told him to go wake up his brother so he didn’t nap too long. Next thing I know, I hear crying for the bedroom. I come running, expecting to find that my oldest son had hurt the younger one for waking him. Instead I find my middle child standing next to his older brother crying because he is still sleeping and won’t get up to come play with him. I couldn’t help but laugh.

I guess, despite all the pushing, shoving, punching, and kicking, my boys really do love each other. Sometimes one of them just needs to be asleep for the other to show it. I can only imagine what life will be like around here as they get older. As long as they remain close, I’m willing to put up with all the fighting.

Being a family is work worth doing

Being a part of a family isn’t a given, it takes work. Yes, we are all born into families and have relatives of one form or another, but blood bonds alone are not enough to make you part of a family. Being part of a family means being involved, and that takes effort.

I was raised in a tight knit family, at least on my mother’s side. It took my husband a lot of getting used to when he would come to family parties with me. There would be so many of us and we’d all be up in each others’ business.

My husband wasn’t raised this way and neither was my father. My father’s parents didn’t have a lot of family growing up. My parental grandfather was an orphan and my paternal grandmother was a the only child of a single working mom who didn’t have the luxury of spending family time with her daughter. Because of this, my paternal grandparents weren’t sure how to be a family unit. They did the best they could but it was work for them. My dad learned more about the importance of being part of a family from my mom and her family than from his own parents. If being parents was work for my paternal grandparents, being grandparents was even more difficult. After all, they’d done their job, they’d raised two sons to adulthood, and now it was just the two of them again; except it wasn’t. They weren’t really sure what to do with grandkids, so most of the time they just didn’t do anything. Because of this, my siblings and I had little connection to them and we pretty much had to be forced to visit them.
My maternal grandmother was very different from my paternal grandparents. She was very involved in her kids’ lives; almost too involved sometimes. She often stayed with us during the winter and we visited throughout the spring and summer months. I loved going to her house for the weekend. We’d bake fresh blueberry muffins, swim at the beach, go to the play ground, play cards, watch jeopardy or baseball, and top off the day with an ice cream from Kool Kone. As I grew older, I remained connected to my grandmother. Sure she was old, cranky, nosy, and drove me nuts, but I loved her just the same. She taught me how to crotchet, made me love crossword puzzles, and shared stories about my ancestors. When she died I was heartbroken.

What made the difference in how I felt about my grandparents was the amount of work they put into the relationship. My paternal grandparents lived only 15 minutes away yet I hardly saw them. They knew so little about me that they didn’t even buy my gifts for holidays, instead they gave my mom money and asked her to get me something or just gave me a check; which to a young child excited to open one gift on Christmas eve was a real let down. My maternal grandmother lived 45 minutes away yet I saw her almost every holiday and many times in between. My grandmother always picked out her own gifts for me when I was a kid which often times were a little odd, but they showed thought and meant something to me. When my paternal grandparents died, I had so little connection with them that I was sad that my dad had lost his parents, but I didn’t feel like I myself had lost anything.

Being a part of a family is about more than being blood related, it’s about having those experiences and making those connections, which takes work. Being family is about sleep overs and special outings, cheering from the sidelines at a tee ball game, celebrating holidays and special occasions together, sending birthday cards, or even just a quick phone call to see how swim lessons went or how school is going. Without putting in this effort, you aren’t part of a family, you’re just someone who might be compatible with a group of people should you ever need a kidney.