The Measure of a Man

I don't think I have fully realized the impact that fathers have in children's lives until recently. Obviously I have been completely oblivious to the extent that my dad's choices have impacted my life until now, where I find my emotions careening and veering far out of the nice controlled path I like to keep them. 

But beyond that, I am watching how deeply hurt my children are due to the temporary loss of their father because of his incarceration.  Today when one of the father's of their team mates paid attention to him, Zachary glowed. When the same man lifted Zachary up into the air at the end of the game, his grin was so large and radiant it consumed his whole face. 

Their father wasn't the most active father in their lives. He fell short of all my expectations and demands, though I did and do acknowledge he is doing better than he was ever raised how to do. But he also was there. When banished from my house, the children still had freedom to go over and hug him. To play tag in his yard, and tell him about their day. They don't have that anymore. 

In our house, we talk about how love can't be measured. Apparently, neither can the impact of a father. 

Shower to cover the sobs

I made sure all the kids had used the bathroom and were occupied by a movie, whose power was more effective because the television had been off for a few days. 

Mechanically I ticked off the steps in my mind. 

1) Close the bathroom door. 

2) Turn on the shower, and remove all bath toys and toy whales from the bath tub. 

3) Close the shower curtain. 

Then, despite all signs that I may remain stuck on the floor of the bath tub once I got there, I curled up on the floor of the bath tub and sobbed.  Ugly, snotty, swamp monster face sobs. Sobs that took away my breath and crushed my chest. Sobs that physically hurt. That wouldn't stop coming, barreling over me with their own destination in mind. 

Overwhelming grief, guilt, and pain flooded my brain with thoughts that spiraled and jumped almost beyond cognitive recognition. I cried to God in desperation and hoped he would hear my thoughts and prayers despite my complete inability to voice them aloud.

My beautiful oldest daughter had been on my mind all day. I am so proud of her for running away, and that is such a truly terrible thing to say. But she was in a situation that she felt was unacceptable and that she couldn't bear any longer, largely due to how she felt was I treating her and my unrealistic expectations, and so she left. 

I wish she had done it differently. I still don't think she realizes how incredibly stupid it was, or how incredibly lucky she is.  I am afraid of the consequences it will have in the future with the rest of the kids when they hit those tumultuous teenage years. 

I was a terrible mother to her in many ways, though I treasured her deeply. I didn't mean to be a bad mother to her. I was trying really hard to do my best. It just didn't work out that way. I want to reach out to her, but know that right now, she would push me away and hurt me more. 

So I will write letters to her, and keep them until it is the right time. Someday they will be read or be burned, but hopefully my thoughts of love, my wishes for her soul to find joy and peace, hopefully those will travel and make it to her. 

I cried for all these realizations and self discovery that I am having forced upon me.  I have repeatedly chosen men in my life who characteristically resemble my father, and they, like my father, have not treated me well. I didn't purposely choose them that way, and I think on some subconscious level I did with a desire for them to take care of me. An inner longing to have the abused and neglected child that still lives inside me finally be nurtured and cared for. 

So I can identify that. Now what do I do with it?

I floundered and stood up, still shaking from sobs but desperately needing to breathe. 

For now, that is all I will do. Breathe. 

Anger

Lately I have been very, very angry. Though trying incredibly hard to maintain a calm, peaceful, cheerful demeanor, inside my anger rages and bits spill out through the cracks. I have a lot to be angry about; the anger is entirely reasonable and justified. A wise friend counciled that I let myself accept and feel that anger. I told her I didn't know how. I don't. 

Driving from one practice across town to another ball game, wild angry sobs escaped me without me inviting them or being able to stop.  I almost pulled over. Unwanted and uninvited questions had popped into my mind. Immediately followed by their raw, brutal answers. 

What does anger mean to me? How do I see anger?

I see anger as I did as a child, whose first memory is talking to the police and riding in the back of an ambulance because my dad had crossed far past the line of safety when angry with my mother...again. The child who was consistently scared and embarrassed as police routinely showed up where she lived because her dad was angry. Always angry.  

Anger is loud. Anger is scary and bloody and hurts long after everything healed. Anger is wanting to die so that you could control it and he couldn't. Angry is uncontrolled, wild, and unpredictable. Anger is abandonment, as she left me behind to bear the brunt of rage after another argument or incident that was not to be tolerated. How could the dishes be stacked wrong again?

I still wince when I hear the sound of tires on gravel.  The sound that indicated he had arrived home. 

I am smart. Logically, I KNOW that anger can be healthy. That we need to accept all our emotions. I have talked to my children and made posters with them on healthy activities they can do when they are angry and upset. Emotional IQ is more important than intellectual prowess. 

Yet I still struggle. When I yell (and only yell) at the kids, which happens because I am human and so are they, I collapse inside due to the guilt. Exhausted, I indulge them later instead of following through on tv groundings or extra chores, creating act cycle of disrespect on both sides. 

I don't know how to fix it, though one of my 100 or so parenting books probably has a solution. I just don't have time to read it.  I know that this is not a family legacy I want to pass on. 

And I am still angry. 

The Kitten

The last thing that I should be taking on right now is the cuddly ball of fluff that is attacking my ankles. I KNOW this. I can hear the shaking of heads and the disapproval now. If I were an outsider, I would probably join in. But I am not, and those heads were shaking before and will keep on shaking after all is said and done. 

It all started with a kitten, brought home years ago. That kitten escaped and subsequently had more kittens. All cats and kittens were banished to the outdoors, and in turn have had more kittens. 

Which is how, shortly after discovering I was pregnant, in the middle of financial and relationship demise, I ended up with four kittens. Four.  One for each child. Adorable little balls of wet sticky fur, mewing and crawling with eyes shut, they were an instant source of wonder for my children. They were named, watched, and when it was time, cuddled very carefully. Then the mommy kitty was done and subsequently killed them all.   Well the remaining all. One had already perished in an accident.  

This was a bit much for the kids on top of all the stress and confusion that has been going on over the past year. Honestly I hit my bit much, over the top, I'd break but there's no one to pick up the pieces point months before this, but thanks to the egocentric nature of childhood, the kids had missed most of that stress that was swirling around them. 

The dead kittens could not be overlooked. Kittens that they had claimed and written stories about. These kittens were to have adventures and be their confidants. Plans had been made. Then, without any warning or a by your leave, the plans were gone. Irrevocably changed and completely out of their control. 

I know exactly how they felt. 

So when they visited the kind man down the road who constantly has both kittens and Popsicles and came home with pictures, I said we'll see and commented on the cuteness and merits of each.  And when they went back again and came back with the only kitten left, I said absolutely. 

So we have a "baby kitten" as Noah likes to call her.  She is soft and cuddly; purrs easily and sometimes just by seeing someone come in the room. She is also fierce and feisty - attacking everything with firm plans of dominance. Including her own shadow. 

I have a few semi credible justifications like the kitten is helping the children cope with everything or that the kitten is teaching them to be gentle before the baby comes. The kitten makes them smile, and right now, that is all I need.