Tag Archives: children

A mother who doesn’t love her son…

Hurricanes birth story. It was a series of ups and downs and insanity. It started when I found out I was pregnant. The immediate sick feeling I had in my stomach pretty much summed it up. Not happiness. More real. What in the actual FUCK am I getting myself into? And how the hell did this happen?

REWIND: January, 1998
A very young me sits in a hospital gown, freezing half to death. She can hear the doctor and nurses talking in the hall in hushed whispers, and her boss has paged her 3 times. She has been having major troubles with her uterus, and the pain had her scared she might have been having a miscarriage. Which would be a neat trick since she was not having sex with anyone. Finally, the doctor walks in. He has a really peculiar look on his face. The nurse will not look her in the eye.

“Go ahead and get dressed, the exam was fine. But we will have to go over a few things.” he says.
“I will be late for work, just tell me while I get dressed behind the curtain, please”
“I really…”
“Doctor- please! I need to go to work!”
*big sigh from the doctor*
” The procedure went well, [Nix], but… I am afraid I have some bad news. There was a significant amount more damage and scar tissue than we anticipated. If you ever decide to have children, you are going to find it very difficult, if not impossible to conceive and carry a child…”
“And?” says the foolish young 20 year old me. “Who’s worried about kids right now?”

Fast forward: March 2001
Miscarriage. How did I have a miscarriage? What’s a DNC? I am not even supposed to be able to get pregnant. How can I have had a miscarriage?

Fast forward:  May 17, 2006
*dials phone* “Hey sis? I need you to come over….Because I have to take a pregnancy test. Yes I am serious. My period is late. It’s probably nothing. I don’t want to tell him yet. He will flip. We have a 5 year plan! And I am not even supposed to be able to get pregnant!”
…..3 hours later….
This can’t be right. I go for my surgery consult next week. I will have them test me.

May 24:
Surgical consult time. Gall stones be damned they are coming out. Pregnancy test? No need. I can’t get pregnant. Required test for all women? OK whatever, give me the cup.  “WHAT DO YOU MEAN I AM PREGNANT?!?!?!?!?”

January 30, 2007:
Induction at 5 AM, still in labor at 5:30 PM. In walks my doctor, and he looks scared to talk to me. “So. There is good news and bad news!  Good- since I broke your water, you are having this baby today.”
“And the bad?”
*Awesome Doctor slowly backs out of the room ready to run* “My shift is over and [Bitch from Hell Doctor is my relief]

Sidenote: BFH doctor told me at my 4 month checkup I was morbidly obese and should have waited to get pregnant, and since I was already pregnant it was too late, but I needed to gain no more than 18 pounds my entire pregnancy. My husband was and still is a BIG dude. How can I have HIS linebacker child and gain only 18 pounds? I hated her. And now she was going to be the one to deliver my baby.

*In strolls BFH. Does cursory exam of my nethers*
“You are not progressing, and the baby is in distress. We are going in for a cesarean. These are the risks, sign this waiver, lets go”

Why isn’t he crying? The cord was around his neck several times. He was slightly blue. They wouldn’t bring him to me. I was in panic mode. He wasn’t crying. My mom looked worried but kept telling me he was fine. Then I heard it. The loud scream. They brought him to see me, and I looked deep into the eyes of my newborn son. And felt…nothing. Like it was just another day. When my husband came in for the first time to see us, to see him, he looked so happy. This look of pure joy to see his son. I felt…nothing.

Week 1- in the hospital. I had setbacks. Spinal headaches. Some infection they could not control. I could not breastfeed and the feeding Nazi was in my room telling me I HAD to nurse. I HAD to feed. It didn’t matter that I was sobbing uncontrollably, telling her even the pump on the lowest setting made me want to scream in holy hell pain. My son was a delight according to the care team. Nurses held and snuggled and cooed and fought over holding him. Family came and held him. I did some. I tried bonding. Skin to skin. Tried to not let the BF Nazi upset me. My savior. Nurse Babs. (Real name) She came in as I was crying and upset, not holding my son, because I was in so much pain. Feeling like a failure because in all honesty, I hurt. And breast feeding was the farthest thing from my mind. I wanted to love and hold my son. I wanted to care. And I felt.. nothing.

Week 2- We are home. We are getting into a routine. He screams, he eats, he pukes, he screams again. He never sleeps. He screams and screams. I feel… nothing. Wait. I feel something. I feel anger. Resentment. Frustration. He won’t. Stop. Screaming. He is broken. I want a new one. That is cute and doesn’t scream and throw up everything he eats and make me feel like hell. I kind of wish I never worried about him not crying in the delivery room.

Week 8- The only time he does not scream and actually sleeps is when he takes a nap in the sun next to the cat. I lay him on his belly on a blanket by the sliding glass door, while the cat snoozes out on the balcony, he snoozes inside. The only way he will sleep is sitting up or on his belly. I have told the pediatrician 20 times I think he has reflux but am rebuffed and told it is “colic” and will get better. He starts to scream at 4 PM and by 11 PM he has not stopped. King Pig has awesomely put away the clean dishes before he left for his night shift. Which includes the babies bottles, which are missing and he will NOT stop screaming. I try to hold him one armed and slam cabinets open and shut looking for the bottles with my other hand. My neighbor bangs/knocks hard on the wall. I am loud. I am bothering her. I am SO angry, I take the cabinet door and I open and slam it over and over about 10 times. I am done. I finally find the bottles and make him one. He spits almost the entire thing up. In desperation, I lay him on his belly in the bassinet. It is 1 AM. I am exhausted. He settles and dozes off. I do too, my hand on his back as he sleeps. I am awakened by the sound of my husbands heavy footsteps.
“Hey honey! How was your night?” he says
“A million times better since you are home. Please watch him for a few minutes. I need to sleep.  I am so glad you got off work early.”
“Honey, what are you talking about? It’s 7:22 AM!”

And then. I felt it. Something. I felt an overwhelming horrifying panic. I was gripped with the biggest wave of choking emotion I have ever felt, even still to this day. I sat straight up in the bed, and shouted “Oh my god the baby!!” and looked over at the bassinet. Where he was sleeping soundly. And right then. I finally felt it. That wave of emotion that they say a new mother should have. I looked at my sleeping son. Who had finally stopped crying and slept several hours. I watched his back rise and fall, and realized he wasn’t dead.  And I bawled. I cried so hard I peed. King Pig had no idea what to make of it, so he just wrapped me in a hug and let me snot all over his shirt. But I finally felt it. I was so connected to him in that moment, I could feel every breath he took inside my heart.  And now, I feel it daily.

I feel it when he calls me in his sleep. When he falls, when he fails, when he succeeds. When his night terrors grip him. When he watches for me anxiously out the window if my afternoon shift turns into a night shift and I see his little face peeking out watching to see if I am home yet. When he has a meltdown because the situation has overwhelmed him and the world won’t stop moving when he needs it to be still. When he comes to me with his grubby face and fist and no pants. When he argues with me, eye rolls, when he brings me he 3957th Lego creation that he has made, when he goes on endlessly about Minecraft. When he has a flash of anger and lashes out. When he bounces in my room way to early and hollers out “HI MOM!!!!!”  When he lays in his bed asleep. I feel it.  But it took some time. We had hurdles to cross. We had to build that bond. Maybe that makes me a bad mom. To not feel this overwhelming sense of emotion. But the reality is, love in any capacity is not an automatic thing. Love is built. Even from birth. I didn’t love him then. But now, my love has no description. No end to its capacity. New moms, know, it’s not always automatic. But it will come. In it’s time. And you will love every minute of it. But please know. It’s not horrible to feel or not feel. Let the love grow until you can not let go. ❤


The death of manners and “it takes a village”

I know many bloggers have written about this topic already, and I have to wonder, when the hell is something going to change? If we KNOW as a society it is an issue, why the f**k is it still going on? Why are we allowing our children to act like this?

I was at the gas station last night, and on my way out, a teen was coming in the door, he paused and held the door while hollering at his friends. I thought he was holding the door for me. When I started to come out he started to come in, without looking, and proceeded to step into and on me. When I started to apologize and explain I thought he was holding the door for me he and his friend started to curse at me. “What the hell! Watch where you are walking you stupid b***h!”

Now, I was already exhausted from a long day at two of my 3 jobs, and late heading out to see my son. But I paused, and calmly, but firmly said the following “Young man, I apologize for bumping you but when you paused to yell back to your “dawg” I presumed you were one of the few with manners and were holding the door for a lady.” He started to get smart with me again, and the manager and a woman came over. I thought, Great! Now he will be asked to apologize. Nope. Instead the manager, and the woman who identified herself as his aunt, told me I had no right to discipline the teen. Say WHAT?

Needless to say, after the day I had, I was about ready to explode. Another customer who came in placed his hand on my shoulder and said,  quietly, two words. “Karma. Walk away.” And he smiled at me. I took a deep breath and did just that.  So thank you kind man for helping me regain my emotional control. But after I got home it really struck a chord.  My own son has been taught since he was strong enough to open a door, we always hold the door for ladies, we say please and thank you, and we never EVER use a disrespectful tone with our friends AND elders.  I work as a teacher and the insane amount of nasty and sarcasm that flows from my students is MINDBOGGLING. When did this become ok? When did it become acceptable to basically BULLY one another? I see teachers bullying students, I see schools with strict no bullying policies letting things slide because “kids will be kids”. And before someone accuses me of being a touchy-feely hug one another type, NO I am not. I get it the world is a tough place and I am far from wanting my son to grow up and be a wimp. BUT common respect and courtesy is not too much to ask of our children!

When did we go away from manners and from helping one another with our kids? I get it ALL the time. If I see a child doing something horribly dangerous on the playground, such as climbing on the outside of a 15 foot high slide, I SAY SOMETHING.  “Hey buddy, I know that is fun for you but it would be awesome if you stop, because I am afraid my son might try it, and he is only six. Would you mind coming down?” I can count on my fingers AND toes the number of times I have, on teacher and nanny and mommy instinct, “parented” another person’s child. I also have been given more s**t than I can count for doing it. But come on! I don’t go around smacking other peoples kids, I don’t issue timeouts to kids who are not my own or are at least those of super close friends of mine. But I DO talk politely and attempt to re-direct them. And I get the attention of the parents or caregivers and alert them of the situation. Because, I was raised to believe, it takes a village.

I want it to be the 50’s again.  When children are taught respect, parents have great conversations, and manners are abundant. I want the days where children played nice and the meanest thing they ever called one another is “stupid-head”. When teens would never EVER consider calling a complete stranger a name, especially not  a “stupid b**ch”. And where the entire village is allowed to control the children!

The tattoo that saved a life…Tattoos and Suicide Part I

For every bad thing ever said about a tattoo, I always defended the form of self expression. And from this day forward will never tolerate hearing any malice towards the art form or those who perform it. All because of this.  A tattoo saved my husbands life.  A simple tat. Just a name, just an arm. And it saved his life.

Long time followers of my Facebook page are aware, we are personal friends with some amazing tattoo artists. A family run operation, our friends Shane, Samm, Vicki, and Athena run Thurmont Tattoo, located in Thurmont, Maryland. When they were local to us, we would have them over for dinner, have home tattoo sessions, stop by the shop just to say hello. We still call them to celebrate our family triumphs, our tragedies  and our best and worst moments. Over the years, they became not only our ink artists, but friends, and now they feel like a part of our family. They are perceptive, warm, loving, and amazing. And they gave my husband the tattoo that saved his life…

My story… After work, two weeks ago. 

13 missed calls? How did I get 13 missed calls? What on earth could be wrong? From her cell phone? Oh lord. She is in the hospital again. Oh god, maybe it is my husband. His breathing is not much better since he got the bronchitis. He was supposed to start his night shift again.  Please god let him have made it to work alright. Calling her. Straight to voicemail. Why? Try again. Straight to voicemail again.  Ok. Call his work. He called out sick. Maybe the bronchitis got worse. They tell me his mom called and said something about the hospital. Ok, so he is in the hospital. Call my roommate to see if he can watch Hurricane. Mid call. Call waiting. Oh god it is mom. Let him be ok. 

Hello? Mom? What’s going on? At the Emergency Room? Why? But? He did what? Wait? WHAT? How? No mom, I am not ok hearing this. Well I will be. Will they let me see him? He is where? I mean WHICH emergency room?  But how? And he called you? OK I am on the way.

Suicide. He attempted suicide? But why? How could I have missed the signs? How is he doing? How will we recover as a family? What will this do to our family unit? Is he going to be ok? How did I miss it? He seemed fine. Tired. Stressed. But he just recently started to see a therapist. She put him on a medication. Maybe the medicine is making him worse. I hear that can happen. He is supposed to be getting better.  It could be nothing. Sure. That is it. The medicine. It has made him worse.  Oh lord, if our son had found him. If he had been successful. How DARE HE? Our SON would have been the first one to find him. I would have let him take the keys and run ahead of me into the house to see Daddy when I saw the truck home. That prick! I wonder…How did he try? Why? How did I miss the signs? His mom couldn’t let me talk to him. Oh god, I hope he is ok. Please, lord. Let him be ok. I can’t…Oh my. I almost lost my husband. Oh lord PLEASE not my husband.  Thank god he called his mom. Why didn’t he call me? Let me check my phone. Ok he did try to call me. Why didn’t I have my phone on me?  Why wasn’t this a day where I left it in my pocket?  I hope he is going to be ok. Oh lord. Please give me strength. Please let him be ok. Please. Let him be. Just let him be. Let him be strong and alive. Let him be safe. Let him be in my arms. I am going to punch him. Our son…that prick! But he is alive. Thank you lord, he is still alive. He was not successful. Oh god. How did I miss this? How? 

Drop off the kid. Get my laptop because I know hospital TV sucks, he might be bored.  Plus my page and my internet friends are my escape. My safe spot… Pull the roommate aside. Fill him in. I gotta get to the hospital. Call his two best friends. They are brothers to him. WHAT THE HELL DO YOU MEAN HE TOLD YOU HE TRIED THIS ALREADY LAST MONTH!?!?!?!?!?!?!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!??????? And I am just now hearing about this? FUCK BRO CODE. Fuck him saying he would see a shrink and then doing it. Yes, He WAS going to see a doctor. But still. How could you not tell me? This is fucking serious. YES you needed to tell me. I have to tell the doctors. This changes everything. He might not get to come home now.  OK. No time to fight about this. I will deal with you later.

Samm:  Listen, bro, I think you should get your son’s name down as part of the sleeve we are starting on your forearm instead of your back.
KP: Really? I was thinking I would put it on the shoulder as part of the back piece we are starting
Samm: I really think it needs to go on your arm. You should have the most important things in your life front and center. I really feel like this is a better idea.
KP: You are the expert, man.  Ok. Right there. Top side of my forearm. Let’s do this.  
(The tat ended up being Hurricane’s name down his forearm, and the birthday on his wrist like a bracelet)

King Pig stands in the kitchen. Holding a knife. He can’t take the pressure. He feels useless. Alone. Hopeless. He stands over the sink. Knife in hand. Tired of being in pain. Tired of feeling alone in a house and world full of people. Tired of feeling like no one cares. Tired of not understanding the fear that grips him on a daily basis, the thoughts that race through his head.  Tired of feeling like a burden because I am doing it all at home. He holds the knife in his right hand and reaches his left arm out over the sink.  Suddenly, while turning his arm over to get the correct angle on his wrist, he catches sight of the tattoo. The one he was going to have put on his back. There it was. Front and center. His son’s name stares up at him, in the same shade of deep red as the blood he was getting ready to spill. He stops. His son. He knows since losing his own father last year just how bad the pain is of losing a parent. His son. 5 years old. Would never recover from this. His wife. Me. He wonders how I will get by without him. He stumbles. He drops the knife into the sink. He hits the floor and fumbles to find his phone in his pocket. In tears, he tries to get someone on the phone. Anyone. First me. No answer. I am at work. Of course he can’t reach me. I am working. Teaching. My phone is in my bag while I am with my students. He panics. Considers grabbing the knife again. Runs his hand up and down his arm over his son’s name, there, in bright red ink. As red as the blood he was about to spill. He fumbles with his phone again. This time, he reaches his mother. He starts to cry. Through his tears she hears the words. Suicide. Pain. Help. She calls him from her cell on call waiting. She keeps her cool and keeps him on the phone. Talks to him the whole way down the highway to our house. She arrives. The normal 25 minute drive takes her 12 minutes. She begs him to get in the car. Tells him she will call the police if he doesn’t. He gets in the car. ER. She calls his doctor while she waits. No answer. They take him back. The frantic calls to me begin. But thank god he is alive.

A tattoo saved his life. The next several months will be filled with appointments. Pain. Healing. But a tattoo saved his life. And I will never. EVER. Be able to thank Samm enough. A simple conversation and decision. It saved his life. Thank you lord for bringing us to the shop for the first time 3 years ago. Thank you for your guidance and for inspiring Samm to make the choice he made. And thank you for keeping my husband on this earth. I would be lost without him. And I will forever be grateful for the tattoo, that saved his life.

Inked The first letter. Samm, no matter what happens in your life, please know this simple bit of ink, will have more impact than anyone could ever know. We love you.

Part II of this healing journey has been written and can be found here:

I am not ready to be a mom…

I had an interesting day and came to a totally honest revelation on my way home. I am not ready to be a mom. Which kinda sucks ass, because I have a 5 year old son to raise. But I have decided, I am not ready to be a mom.

I had a decent day with him but he is in a weird, whining about everything temper tantrum, baby/big boy stage. Which makes me want to strangle him on a frequent basis. But heaven forbid I raise my voice to him or anything in public. I might be called a bad mom.  But then, he did it. He did the one thing that horrifies me to the point I am ready to find a hole and hide and never come out. I yelled at him to “Get over here RIGHT NOW” and as he approached me, he cowered down. Like he thought I was going to beat him soundly. And my son gets spanked so rarely I almost died. As a large group of people stood staring, hands ready to call Child Protective Services on me, I froze. And decided, I am not ready to be a mom.

Emotionally, I do not think I am cut out to be a parent. I go from loving him with every fiber of my being so hard it hurts, to being so horrified or disappointed when he makes a mistake, in under 3 seconds. Being a parent is enough to make anyone understand what it is like to be bi-polar. You can be happy as hell one minute and sad as hell the next. Every single day he comes home with a report about being too much in class. Too loud, too wiggly, too talkative. And it drives me INSANE. Because he has it in him to be a good…no GREAT kid. So maybe the issue is not him. It’s me. Because I am not ready to be a mom.

I went over this with a friend of mine. Bless her and hand her the wine, because she has FIVE boys. FIVE. Ages 14 down to 2. And the best news I heard all day, was her telling me… she is not ready to be a mom either. I have another friend, I call her my Martha Stewart friend. Because everything in her life has gone perfectly and planned. (Only no jail time for her, LOL) But even she was not ready. Being a parent SUCKS. Honestly it does. Anyone who thinks it does not is full of it. It also is AWESOME. It is heartache and headaches and love and intensity and chaos and happiness and love and hate. It is amazing. It is awful. But heaven forbid you EVER mention the awful. Because when you do…you prove…you are not ready to be a mom.

I am not ready to raise someone and turn them into an amazing human being. I have not even figured out what the hell I want for and from myself.
I am not ready for the struggles of parenthood. The hugs and heartaches. The tears. Being torn between tough love and wanting to wrap up and protect.
I am not ready for the nights without sleep when night terrors rock his little body, and the pain that comes from knowing there is NOTHING I can do to make it better.
I am not ready for being looked at and made to feel like a failure as a parent because he can not stay in control in school.
I am not ready to face he might have an issue like a learning disability, ADD, or other special needs.
I am not ready to face any of it.

But then again, I have found strength for him I have not ever shown for myself. I spent YEARS with my own health struggles and never ever fought for my doctors to really hear me or look at me.  Then he got sick. And sicker. And I fought tooth and nail for them to hear me. Something was NOT right with my son. Finally, after 2 years, someone listened. Turns out this mommy was not crazy. He was not textbook but he DID have a problem. (Severe GERD which he still has now at age 5)  Because I knew something was wrong. He was being bullied by a kid in our neighborhood. I helped him learn to stand up for himself. He got the bloody lip to prove it. But now the other kids do not pick on him. I taught him to take care of his friends, and when a bully was pushing around a friend he thinks of as his little brother, he came to his defense. He struggles to be brave, while still being so little. But he is getting more and more confident each day. He is well spoken, and intelligent and full of energy and enthusiasm. So maybe, just maybe I have it it me.

I do it my own way. My mom, my family, none of them get it. But he has been doing ok. So maybe I am not ready. But I think I have it in me to keep trying. Because, lets me honest. Even if you have 5 kids or 15, you are never really ready.

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