Once Upon A Mother

There are 13 photographs in this collage. 
There are 13 different little faces in 13 little card stock framed windows, under glass, in a plain pine frame. 
Thirteen hearts shining from blue, brown, hazel, green, and black, wise little eyes. 
And all 13 of them were loved by me, however briefly, once upon a time.
There were more than 13 but I don't have pictures of them all.  That makes my heart sad, but I still know in my heart the feeling of holding each of them in my arms.

Dori, Ari, and Lili called me mama.
Maddie, my little meme, also called me mama.  She wanted to help make my morning "foffee" and would call down the stairs to the big kids by saying, "guys! guys! C'mon guys!!!"

Ray, Kevi, Nico, Xavi, Jelly, Jazzy, Liz, and Ci, didn't call me anything at all; either because they were too young to speak, or because they weren't with me long enough to name me as their own. Flit was one of the the ones who could say my actual name, but refused.  He wasn't the only one - as I said, there were more than the 13 that I have pictures of, but he is one of the ones I remember actually ACHING for. 

Flit, whom I nick-named after the hummingbird in the Disney movie Pocohontas, was terrified of the dark, and of closets, and held fast to the belief that the only foods worth eating were chicken nuggets, or white bread with peanut butter.  One night Flit, all of 5 years old and barely 40lbs, woke up sometime after midnight screaming"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" and had to be wrestled out of his urine-soaked pajamas and put into soft, dry ones, and laid onto soft, dry sheets and covered with a soft dry blanket, and still he stiffened up and refused to be held, or sung to, or cuddled, or soothed.  He just whimpered, "I'm sorry...I'm sorry..." the whole time.  My heart broke a little that night in a way I didn't know was possible.  Until the next one.

Little man was barely 2, like maybe 21 months.  His baby sister was just 10 months old.  You do the math... go on... I'll wait...

Little Man and baby sis were brought to me at about 7pm.  Little Man, at barely 2, was one of my favorite ages - and was all big eyes and totally expressionless.  He was blond, with chocolate drop eyes and a round little tummy... and a green-snot encrusted nose.  Baby sis was a dirty, stale smelling, rashy bottom, sticky mess.  I moved to unbuckle her from the cheap plastic infant bucket seat the social worker had left her in and Little Man made HIS move.  He threw his little baby body over that plastic seat, over his baby sister, with the intention of protecting her from me.  He was not even 24 months old.  He was still - for all measures - a BABY... yet he felt he had to protect his baby sister.  He risked the completely unknown for the salvation of a helpless infant when he himself was just an infant.  I cannot even describe what that felt like to see and realize and understand. 

At that point in time, I had 3 kids of my own.  Three children born from me into breastfeeding, organic homemade baby food, and cloth diapers.  Children who were read to and tucked into "family beds" and then fed hot breakfasts in the morning before getting on a bus to the local public school.  Children for whom the worst punishment was loss of watching tv, or an early bedtime, or a 5 minute time out in the corner on a chair.  Children who sat at the dinner table with both parents every night and ate kid-friendly, nutritious, and balanced meals; who showered or bathed every night and wore clean pajamas and clean clothes every day.  Children who left their younger siblings without a second thought because...why should they worry?

Little Man and his baby sis stayed only 2 nights.  I can't remember now if they were taken in by family or shifted to a longer term foster family, but i remember Little Man's eyes... and the way he wanted to protect his baby sis even tho he was a baby himself.

I remember Dori and Ari and how I called them "the ladies" and would say things like, "c'mon ladies, lets get going" and "alright ladies, this way now..."  I remember Lili and dressing her in everything pink and pretty.  I remember my own children wearing yellow raincoats and yellow rainboots and how I would call out, "c'mon duckies, this way...".  Maddie was a different story entirely, and deserves a post all of her own.  There is a Maddie sized wound in my heart that will never heal. 

Thirteen pictures of 13 souls - and there are so many more than just those 13 - that will forever be the beginning of 13 stories... and I loved all of them.  There were more like 18... or 20 by the time I had to quit being the foster parent I'd always dreamed of being.  There were babies and toddlers and preschoolers that stole bits of my heart and pieces of my soul and they all started with the line, "Once upon a..."  time? drug habit gone wrong? bad date? bad childhood? mother? Once upon a mother... yeah, thats it... Once upon a mother...

Once upon a mother, there was a child that needed a heart to love it.  And then there was D. 

Today on Mothers Day I think about my momma and how long she's been gone - 24 years.  I miss her more than I can admit because missing her makes me choke, sob, and keen in grief, ... still.

I think about my mother in law and how long I've been divorced - 10 years. She loved me as best as she could.
 
I think about Maddie - it's been 11 or 12 years since I saw her - she must be 12, or 13 now... and what has become of the baby who arrived with bite marks on her thighs and a blank expression on her face - who turned into the laughing Buddha baby who wanted to make my morning "foffee" and who yelled, "guys! c'mon guys!" to the big kids down the stairway.  The brown girl, in the sun, who stole my heart.

I think about oldest girl with the starry eyes and sunshine smile who lives so far away and whom I miss with an endless ache every hour of every day. 
I think of my oldest boy - my Mowgli man-cub with the wild curls and the 'to the bottom of your soul' brown eyes, and the music that erupts from his pores.
I think about my youngest girl with the crazy hair and the stern eyes and the laughter that is moon beams and ocean tides...
and I think about my boy-oh, my WTF child, my upside down inside out life shaking soul splitting shake n shimmy firefly child... and how once upon a time i wasn't a mother yet and how much I would NEVER go back.  Not for a moment, not for a day, not for gabazillion dollars.

Once I was a mother - and I always will be.

Renewed

For someone as wordy as am, who used to write daily, who is frequently on social media and truly has a need for connection with others based on conversation, I find myself becoming more and more speechless as time goes by.  I'm more often censoring my own words and thoughts.  Not that I have less of them, oh no, my thoughts are plentiful!  I'm caught up, however, in the act of trying to decide what matters, what will make an impact or be dismissed, what will make someone pause, feel pain, roll their eyes, be angry, or even try to get me to change something or delete something... or want me to agree that I am wrong about some feeling or thought.  That happens, even to me, who now writes so very little. It makes the act of writing, and talking, so treacherous.  I came across a quote the other day that made me stop in my tracks.  I had an "ah-ha!" moment over it.

I discovered "gaslighting" just about 6 years ago.  Someone sent me an article about it and as I read the article I was struck with a feeling of both dread and conviction.  I had chills, my face flushed hot, I felt nauseous.  I was having a panic attack just reading the article that described something so significant about my entire life.  This explains Gaslighting... 
Parents do to their children, and spouses do to their partners.  Alcoholics and addicts do to anyone. Employers do it.  Sometimes alcoholic parents do it to their children and those children grow up to be adults that have spouses that do it, partly because its what feels normal to them.  Sometimes those adults figure it out and somehow free themselves from the shadow of this abuse and begin to live theirs lives in authenticity and honesty. Or they at least try.

It's hard to recover from a lifetime of trauma - of living under the power of gaslighting.  I see it when it happens now; I see it when it happens in interactions with co-workers or with an employer or out in everyday circumstances, I see it when someone tells me about an interaction they had that didn't feel right.  I try to make sure it's not happening TO my child, that I'm not doing it out of conditioning.  I work hard to be obvious.  When I'm tired, or stressed, or worried, it's even harder to notice, to be aware of, to avoid.  When I saw the words someone else had written in a quote the other day it was like a splash of cold water to my sleep-walking self. 

"The thing about trauma is that it will have you gaslighting yourself when real shit goes down because you have learned that your feelings aren't to be trusted"

Man that hit home.  I think back to all the times I've gone to a friend or my therapist and asked, "tell me, is this feeling even valid?  Is this thought process worthwhile or am I being over-sensitive / dramatic / ridiculous / self-absorbed / crazy" (or any of the other adjectives I carry in my self-sabotaging arsenal).  Nearly every single time, it is validated for me that I AM seeing things clearly and having an appropriate feeling or thought.  Occasionally I will be shown other ways to think about it, but I am usually doing a fine job of being in reality these days. 

When I am feeling my best, feeling my "lady-balls" as someone special likes to call it, I am confident and sure enough to say what I think and feel what I feel without apology.  I have better relationships with others, I am a better listener and communicator. 

When I am under stress, worried, conflicted, or up against something I am unsure of however, all bets are off.  I become a gaslighter to myself.  I doubt, I second-guess, I waffle, I apologize, I stuff feelings and emotions and thoughts, I twist my own words and scorn my own feelings.  I speak harshly to myself.  I switch back and forth between what I feel and think to what I THINK I should feel and think and it gets very messy, very chaotic, and it hurts.  It hurts my relationships with others as well as my own self.

I hereby make the commitment to stop doing this to myself.
I'm going back to the beginning.  Back to when I focused on balance, on God and the universe presenting opportunity for learning and leaning and grounding and growing.  I'm going back to believing in myself, to feeling my feelings and not doubting their true-ness.  I am facing a lot of things I am unsure of, a lot of new opportunities, a lot of choices, and I'm tired of fighting against myself.  I trust that I will sometimes be wrong and that there will be forgiveness and mercy available when I own those moments as mine.  I trust that I will sometimes be right, and there will be gentle acceptance and reward when I claim those moments as mine.  I know sometimes that the forgiveness and mercy will be just out of reach and I will have to find it within myself, for myself.  That will be hard.  I can do hard things though.  My sweet 22 year old son just reminded me of that a few nights ago.  So goodbye to self-gaslighting.  Hello, again, to me...