(no subject)
When I was 19, I got married, pregnant with my 18 year old boyfriend's child. In my 12th week, I woke up with cramps and bleeding. I was miscarrying. I called my OB, who told me that there was nothing to stop it at that early stage (ignorant fool).
I returned to the bedroom and woke up my husband. I fearfully told him what was going on. He promptly went back to sleep as if overwhelmed by a sudden attack of narcolepsy. I didn't have the resources to deal with his inability to cope, so I spent the next hour and a half with only my soon-to-be-lost baby for comfort. When it was over, I held that tiny, but recognizably human, bloody glob and cried, for her and for myself, sitting alone in the bathroom floor. I cleaned up and climbed back in bed next to my still-sleeping "partner".
There is a pattern throughout my life. I've always seen myself as stronger than most people, perhaps arrogantly so. I've taken pride in the fact that I can handle stressful, even terrifying, situations on my own without losing it. Perhaps it's rooted in a fear of depending on others. Maybe I've been attempting to give myself a feeling of comfort and security that I never got from having a strong, protective father that I could depend on.
I left the father of my two children a few months after we found out that I was pregnant with our second child. A positive pregnancy test turned him into a hysterical, resentful child. He would come home from work and sit staring into space, wound tighter than I thought possible and tell me that he hated his life, that he was just waiting to go to bed so he could wake up and go to work all over again, that he was just waiting to die (melodramatic much?). He repeatedly told me that he'd never even wanted to be a father, that he wanted his life back. So I gave it back to him. I had no interest in staying with a selfish man-child, and I was totally unwilling to have my children raised by someone who resented them, believing they'd ruined his life. Later, when trying to convince me to return to him, he confessed that he actually had been involved with our older child only because it made ME happy. I'm sure he meant it to be a romantic declaration of his devotion to me, but his statement only convinced me that I'd made the right choice.
So I've raised them alone, proud of my ability to do so. Oh, I've had a bit of help here and there. One boyfriend stood on a lake dock laughing while my children's heads repeatedly slipped under the surface of the water, despite my desperate cries to him to help them. Like them, I'm not a strong swimmer, but there was no hesitation when I reached the dock. I jumped in and grabbed the closest child, pushing her into the shallower water where she could touch ground. Returning to my son, I felt the ground steeply fall away under my feet as I too went under. I found his arm and held him over my head where he, hopefully, could breathe, and started walking determinedly toward the dock. When we were all in the shallows and I had gotten enough air that I didn't feel like I was going to pass out, I looked back up toward the dock. My "partner" stood there still, laughing in a rather panicked way, and completely dry. He hadn't moved an inch and I hated him for it. My ten year old daughter was crying, clinging to my coughing, gagging son, not only out of her own fear, but also because she hadn't been able to save him. My boyfriend never apologized, despite the fact that he had told my children to ignore the "No Wading" sign, to go farther out from the water's edge and "see what's out there". He created the whole disaster. His ridiculous excuse for his inaction? "I thought they could swim!"
Oh yes, I'm a very capable, powerful woman. I can handle an enormous amount of responsibility and stress. In fact, I often prefer to handle things alone. But I've realized that it's not because I'm oh so private or independent. It's because those I should be able to depend on for support are usually leeching my strength, trying to gain comfort from me, even as I deal with the problem.
During the birth of my first child, her father never left my side. He was incredibly attentive, holding my hand, brushing my hair from my face, offering water. I couldn't understand at the time why all I wanted him to do was BACK OFF. (My own mother, who had driven in from out of state, was more focused on snapping pictures than on the actual experience.) I labored with my daughter all weekend, literally, as if I just couldn't muster the power to progress things. And for months after, I felt an odd resentment toward him. Hadn't he been so sweet and tender? Hadn't he supported me like women frequently say they wished their husbands had? I chalked it up to hormones and lack of sleep.
It wasn't until after the birth of my son that I figured it out. You see, he was born at home, like my daughter, but with only my sister-of-the-heart there. She never touched me, seldom spoke, but filled the room with a calm, fearless presence, and I was unbelievably empowered. I breathed, expanded and opened with my son a mere four hours to bring him through. We cleaned up and nursed, took a little nap, and then attended my sister's wedding that afternoon (in my pajamas, which no one minded at all).
The difference? She was there for me, cradling my child and myself in unwavering strength and faith in me. She quietly took care of providing water, reminders, or whatever else I needed, but never made it about her. He, however, was terrified and helpless, clinging to me like a lifeline--Please tell me what to do! Please be strong! I don't know what I'm doing! Oh shit, are you okay?!
I am still strong and capable, and I can still handle life by my all-grown-up self. But I know now that I don't have to, because I am not the only one who can, or will, or wants to. I have seen real men. I know they exist.
I am a woman who has been trying to build a home in a sandbox full of little boys.
I returned to the bedroom and woke up my husband. I fearfully told him what was going on. He promptly went back to sleep as if overwhelmed by a sudden attack of narcolepsy. I didn't have the resources to deal with his inability to cope, so I spent the next hour and a half with only my soon-to-be-lost baby for comfort. When it was over, I held that tiny, but recognizably human, bloody glob and cried, for her and for myself, sitting alone in the bathroom floor. I cleaned up and climbed back in bed next to my still-sleeping "partner".
There is a pattern throughout my life. I've always seen myself as stronger than most people, perhaps arrogantly so. I've taken pride in the fact that I can handle stressful, even terrifying, situations on my own without losing it. Perhaps it's rooted in a fear of depending on others. Maybe I've been attempting to give myself a feeling of comfort and security that I never got from having a strong, protective father that I could depend on.
I left the father of my two children a few months after we found out that I was pregnant with our second child. A positive pregnancy test turned him into a hysterical, resentful child. He would come home from work and sit staring into space, wound tighter than I thought possible and tell me that he hated his life, that he was just waiting to go to bed so he could wake up and go to work all over again, that he was just waiting to die (melodramatic much?). He repeatedly told me that he'd never even wanted to be a father, that he wanted his life back. So I gave it back to him. I had no interest in staying with a selfish man-child, and I was totally unwilling to have my children raised by someone who resented them, believing they'd ruined his life. Later, when trying to convince me to return to him, he confessed that he actually had been involved with our older child only because it made ME happy. I'm sure he meant it to be a romantic declaration of his devotion to me, but his statement only convinced me that I'd made the right choice.
So I've raised them alone, proud of my ability to do so. Oh, I've had a bit of help here and there. One boyfriend stood on a lake dock laughing while my children's heads repeatedly slipped under the surface of the water, despite my desperate cries to him to help them. Like them, I'm not a strong swimmer, but there was no hesitation when I reached the dock. I jumped in and grabbed the closest child, pushing her into the shallower water where she could touch ground. Returning to my son, I felt the ground steeply fall away under my feet as I too went under. I found his arm and held him over my head where he, hopefully, could breathe, and started walking determinedly toward the dock. When we were all in the shallows and I had gotten enough air that I didn't feel like I was going to pass out, I looked back up toward the dock. My "partner" stood there still, laughing in a rather panicked way, and completely dry. He hadn't moved an inch and I hated him for it. My ten year old daughter was crying, clinging to my coughing, gagging son, not only out of her own fear, but also because she hadn't been able to save him. My boyfriend never apologized, despite the fact that he had told my children to ignore the "No Wading" sign, to go farther out from the water's edge and "see what's out there". He created the whole disaster. His ridiculous excuse for his inaction? "I thought they could swim!"
Oh yes, I'm a very capable, powerful woman. I can handle an enormous amount of responsibility and stress. In fact, I often prefer to handle things alone. But I've realized that it's not because I'm oh so private or independent. It's because those I should be able to depend on for support are usually leeching my strength, trying to gain comfort from me, even as I deal with the problem.
During the birth of my first child, her father never left my side. He was incredibly attentive, holding my hand, brushing my hair from my face, offering water. I couldn't understand at the time why all I wanted him to do was BACK OFF. (My own mother, who had driven in from out of state, was more focused on snapping pictures than on the actual experience.) I labored with my daughter all weekend, literally, as if I just couldn't muster the power to progress things. And for months after, I felt an odd resentment toward him. Hadn't he been so sweet and tender? Hadn't he supported me like women frequently say they wished their husbands had? I chalked it up to hormones and lack of sleep.
It wasn't until after the birth of my son that I figured it out. You see, he was born at home, like my daughter, but with only my sister-of-the-heart there. She never touched me, seldom spoke, but filled the room with a calm, fearless presence, and I was unbelievably empowered. I breathed, expanded and opened with my son a mere four hours to bring him through. We cleaned up and nursed, took a little nap, and then attended my sister's wedding that afternoon (in my pajamas, which no one minded at all).
The difference? She was there for me, cradling my child and myself in unwavering strength and faith in me. She quietly took care of providing water, reminders, or whatever else I needed, but never made it about her. He, however, was terrified and helpless, clinging to me like a lifeline--Please tell me what to do! Please be strong! I don't know what I'm doing! Oh shit, are you okay?!
I am still strong and capable, and I can still handle life by my all-grown-up self. But I know now that I don't have to, because I am not the only one who can, or will, or wants to. I have seen real men. I know they exist.
I am a woman who has been trying to build a home in a sandbox full of little boys.