DNA Does Not A Parent Make

Too many adults seem to believe that sharing DNA is enough to make them a parent, worse they think DNA is enough to make them a GOOD parent.  

Yet good parents don't mooch off their family while their mothers raise their children.

They don't selfishly hoard their children like a dragon hoarding riches instead of allowing their child to live in a home with both love and the opportunities they cannot provide. 

Good parents don't alienate their children from the other parent with vicious lies and twisted versions of the past told through the lens of their own hurt instead of the lens of love for their child because love for their child would recognize that your past romance has nothing to do with the child's relationship with their parent.

Good parents do not withhold educational and medical information from the other parent for control.  

Good parents accept their children's gender identity.  

Good parents use the right pronouns. 

Good parents know failure to accept their child's gender identity and failure to use the right pronouns causes suicidal ideation, and will make your child cry themselves to sleep at night wondering why they're not good enough for you.

Good parents realize their children have ADHD without having to be told by a step parent.

Good parents realize their children need therapy without having to be told and actually keep them in that therapy. 

A good parent would put their child in an in-treatment facility for serious mental health issues when they need it instead of refusing to do so just to show the other parent they have more "control."  That only risks their child's life unnecessarily.

Good parents are concerned about sexual health and safety of their teen children.

Good parents teach their children right from wrong and don't overlook poor behavior just because it was directed at the other parent or the step parent, whom they loathe simply for existing. 

Good parents do not try to include a child in adult decisions and discussions. 

Good parents do not create an us against them dynamic between their child and the other parent.

Good parents know that birthing a child isn't enough to make you a parent.   Good parents know it takes a village and that village MUST include the other parent. 

Not Our Circus

 I do not understand the need to alienate a child from their parents.  

As a person certified in Trauma Informed Care, as much as I try to shift my view to a "what happened to you" stance to understand this behavior, I know that no amount of trauma excuses the outcome of putting your own trauma upon your child in this manner.  

I know that children, particularly teenagers, need a parent and not a BFF.  

I know that children need and deserve relationships with both parents and that includes bonus parents who have been there the majority of their lives--not just brand new people who've swooped in recently to develop relationships with their mother and coincidentally the child in question.  

Alienating a child from their father, and consequently all of that child's only existent siblings, is just...well...gross. 

So is failure to establish boundaries for acceptable behaviors, failure to encourage personal growth and stepping outside of comfort zones sometimes to better oneself, and failure to acknowledge serious health concerns to the detriment of said child.

I've been so traumatized by the toxicity of the coparenting relationship with these people and their negative impact on our family, and our teenager, that I had to reenter therapy...

My therapist told me I need to establish my own firm boundaries and that includes stopping communication with all toxic parties, including my teenager.  She's right.  She said any guilt or sadness I feel is because I'm actually a good mom and a decent human, but I deserve to take care of myself and to be treated with respect and kindness.  People who refuse to do that and to acknowledge all I've done do not deserve my continued presence.  She is right about that too.  It was a tearful, but enlightening session.  

I'm letting go.  

I believe one day our sixteen year old will realize the damage her own mother and her mother's boyfriend have done, and then they will all have to contend with that.

For the moment, however, it's not our circus. 

Assault and an Inability to Coparent

 My eldest bonus child was here as they always are the week after Christmas to celebrate Christmas, New Year's Eve, and then their birthday.  It was New Year's Eve and our parenting time had been going quite well.

As it neared midnight and the countdown to the new year (2022), I pulled out craft supplies and set the kids up to start a vision board craft.  I also started the process of making four dozen cookies.

Somewhere in the middle of all that, around 11:30-something, my bonus-kid's mom or possible their mom's boyfriend texted me to ask when we were meeting the next day to exchange them.  As we always meet at the same time, and I was up to my elbows in crafts and cookie dough, I elected to ignore the text.  It's a holiday.  I'm reclaiming our limited family time.  You can wait until the morning.  

Ten minutes later, my hands sunk in cookie dough, my bonus kid burst into the kitchen and demands to know a time to meet their mom the next day.  I calmly say, "We will let them know first thing in the morning. It will all be okay."  

My bonus kid runs to their dad because my answer wasn't acceptable and he tells them the same thing.  

Their mom never should have put them in the middle.  That's ridiculous.  

But then, instead of just accepting that answer, my child who is about to turn 15 (literally in 3 days) stomps into their room and slams the door.  They begin to loudly call me curse words while on the phone.

I go into the room and ask them to give me the phone and rejoin the celebration.  

This child who is two inches taller than me and one hundred pounds heavier than me, stands up and goes nose to nose with me to scream in my face, "YOU DON'T PAY FOR IT, YOU DON'T HAVE THE RIGHT TO TAKE IT!"  

At this point I become angry and yell at them to give me the damn phone.   My child then shoves me into the bunk bed and kicks me. I call for their dad. I am left bruised and with a busted lip. Their dad takes their phone.

The next day I leave my home with my two youngest children because I don't feel safe and I am heartbroken.   I did not bake them a cake for their birthday. I came back in time to give them their gift. Before they left I set some boundaries:  no one in our home is allowed to call me names and disrespect me in my own home, not online or on the phone or on any device or otherwise; and no one in this house is allowed to get physical with someone else.  We have the right to take devices in our home.  

Our child has refused to come back.  Their mom and their mom's boyfriend refused to address the assault, even when presented with photo evidence. They instead insisted we did not have the right to take the phone.

They have refused to effectively coparent and have practiced parental alienation the entire time the boyfriend has been involved, and our child's mother has practiced parental alienation our child's entire life.  

They refuse to follow even very basic state laws regarding family law.  In the absence of a court ordered custody agreement, both biological parents have legal custody and therefore must be informed of all medical and educational information concerning the child.  That's the law.  My husband shares legal custody with this child's mother and the boyfriend has no legal rights.  That's the law.

I didn't make it up.

I shouldn't be surprised they continue to withhold medical information.  After all, they think assault and battery is acceptable behavior.  Clearly they don't care about laws. 

Depression and Mental Illness

People don't like to talk about mental illness.  In my experience, many people don't much like to hear about it either.  But we cannot remove the stigma surrounding mental illness if we never discuss it.  We cannot remove the stigma against treatment for mental illness if we do not discuss it either.

I have Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.  I have suffered multiple traumas.  I don't owe anyone my stories.  I won't share those here, but I will share that due to circumstances beyond my control I have had to have frequent contact with an abuser recently and this has sent me into a mental health spiral that is frightening and difficult to navigate.

I am also currently combating depression and anxiety.

I have medication prescribed by a mental health provider and I am treated by a therapist weekly.

Some days, however, none of that is enough.

Today is one of those days.

I am struggling with interpersonal relationships.  I feel like a relationship important to me is falling apart.  One of my children is spiraling, making questionable choices, and appears to hate me and everyone else after suffering their own rather significant trauma.  I can't seem to fix anything.

All of this is the perfect storm for my own mental health nightmare and I honestly don't know what is my fault, what isn't my fault, what emotions are valid and what emotions are the result of my brain lying to me.

I feel like a failure as a parent.  I feel like a failure as a person and an advocate and a partner.

I feel alone. I feel isolated. I feel unloved and despised.  And logically I know that's not true, but it feels true right now and that sucks.  And that is mental illness.

Quiet Defiance: My Coming Out Story

I don't have a dramatic coming out story.  In fact, I would argue, perhaps, I didn't exactly "come out" at all, at least not in any "I made an announcement" sort of way.

When I was 14 years old I went to Florida on vacation with my dad. I spent all day in the ocean or drying off on a towel in the sand.  Late in the afternoon our first day there, I met a girl.  Isn't that how these stories always go?

She had caramel skin and wavy ebony hair, and the most deliciously delightful accent.  We were both staying in the camp ground of the national park. We strolled along the boardwalk and bought french fries and ice cream. We were both good swimmers and we swam until it was dark. We spent most of the afternoon and well into the night talking and flirting.

I don't remember what we talked about. We sat on two giant beach towels, skin shimmering with dried salt from our recent swim, hair wavy and damp in the moonlight. I remember laughing a lot, and how I felt when she touched my arm--reaching over to brush the hair out of her face because it was windy.  And that's when it happened.

Our eyes locked and time stopped as it tends to in those moments.  My breath caught in my throat.  I leaned in and so did she, and we kissed. Her lips were soft and sweet, and so was her skin.

We stayed in Florida for more than a week.  So did she.  We soaked up every second together.  Fingers intertwined, feet in the sand, and stealing kisses while we could. 

If people noticed, we didn't notice them because it was all so new, or maybe it was the magic of vacation. She was my first kiss and I was hers.  We wrote to each other for several months after I left.  She lived in Florida and I did not.

A few years later, after dating a few boys, I met another girl who gave me butterflies.  She didn't go to my school but she worked in a store at the mall and so did I.  By this time I was 16 and well aware that my sexuality was not likely to be well received at home or in my conservative Southern community.  But I liked her and she liked me.

We liked to have lunch together in the food court on our breaks.  One day I screwed up the courage to ask her to go to a movie with me.  She said, "Like a date."  I nodded, and she said yes. 

When we were in line at the movies she said, "You know people around here won't like this."  I knew she meant us.  I said, "Yeah."  Then she smiled, and I smiled.  I reached for her hand, our fingers intertwined, quietly defiant.

Always A 49er

I have traversed every corner of the University of NC at Charlotte campus.  I have walked the halls of every building. I have both learned and taught inside its classrooms.  I have spent countless hours buried in research inside Atkins Library, my sanctuary.

I have buried my bare toes in the grassy knolls by the pond behind Rowe.  I have carefully skirted hissing, nesting geese on my way to class.  I walked across the stage to accept my diploma, becoming the first college graduate in my entire family.

I fell in love there. I fell out of love there. I became an adult there.  I lost myself there. I found myself there.  I made lifelong friendships there.  I met my mentors there. I got my professional start there.  I joyfully announced my pregnancy to my friends inside one of the original buildings, Denny. My boyfriend, who is now my husband, used to drive me to class just so we'd have more time together.  Then he'd sit and play games until I was through so he could drive me home.  My children have walked, holding my hand, to my classes and my office and the library. So much of my life unfolded at UNC Charlotte.  So much of who I am is because of people and events on that campus.  UNCC is home.  I bleed green.

And today my heart is broken because some vile person violated my home and murdered people in my sacred spaces.

When I saw the breaking news last night, I lost my breath.  The tears came immediately, streaming down my face in hot rivulets.  I immediately reached out to friends and mentors, former colleagues, frantic--are you okay?

My loved ones are safe.  But okay? No.  No one is okay.  I am not okay.

My children were nearly late to school this morning.  I forced a smile and tried to control my rising fear as I ushered them to the car. On the way to school we discussed the shooting.  My youngest daughter said, "I'll never be a bad guy with a gun, mommy.  Never."  Oh my darling.  I know.

 I walked her into her pre-K class, and I hugged her too long.  She said, "Let go, mommy. I have stuff to do."  I kissed her cheek and reluctantly let go.  I took my older daughter through the drop off line at her elementary school.  I told her I loved her and to have a good day.  And I pulled over to cry on the way home.

My children are not safe.  They could be murdered at their desks in a place that should be safe.  If I return to teaching, I could be shot by some angry 22 year old white man with a gun and no remorse.

 My one year old son is not in daycare.  I was thinking of putting him in a two day a week program.  I won't now.  He is safer at home with me.  They all are.

And they all deserve better than this.

We live in a war zone, a war zone where you can be murdered for going to school or going to church or going to the mall.  We live in a war zone in a nation steeped in cognitive dissonance and denial of our own decline, a nation that refuses to protect our children.

Bittersweet

I am 28 weeks pregnant, and I'm high risk (just like last time).  A second (viable) pregnancy is different from a first pregnancy in so many ways. 

For instance, my daughter moved so much and so violently in the womb that we nicknamed her "Ninja Baby."  She was never still. Every movement was HARD and forceful, making my tight uterus undulate visibly, my bump rarely stationary. 

This baby, our one and only boy, is mellow.  He is still most of the day.  The majority of his movements are gentle, even in this, my third trimester.  He is my guppy, swimming calmly in the waters of my womb. I can barely feel him most of the time.

No one thought I'd make it this far.  I distanced myself emotionally from this baby as much as I could in the beginning stages of this pregnancy, fearful of another miscarriage.  But he's still here, and he is so very loved.

This is my final pregnancy.  My maternal fetal medical specialist told me he thought he could get me through this pregnancy and delivery, but bluntly stated that if I got pregnant again I would likely die. Our son will be born via scheduled and medically necessary cesarean section, and my tubes will be tied during the c-section.  No one told me how sad your last pregnancy could be, how bittersweet.

This is the last time my body will suffer through hyperemesis gravidarum.  This is the last time I will endure pregnancy related bed rest.  Pregnancy is hard on my body and this is the last one.  As I enter my third trimester I am struck by awe that I will have new little baby soon, and I am saddened that this baby will be my last baby. I am saddened by all the lasts these final weeks of pregnancy bring.

This was the last time I will ever pee on a stick and become elated and scared upon seeing two pink lines.  It is the last time I will see a tiny fetus on a screen at my first ultrasound, and the last time I will hear the rapid fetal heartbeat of a baby growing in my womb with a doppler.  It is the last time I will feel sweet baby kicks from the inside.  It is the last time I will cradle my belly and whisper softly to a child, my child, who is cradled gently inside my body--safe and warm.  It is the last time I will watch in awe as my body changes and grows to support a human life.  It is bittersweet.

These are also the last few weeks that my four year old will be the baby of the family.  She will be such a good big sister.  She likes to talk to my belly, telling her brother secrets.  She rubs lotion on my baby bump and carefully smears some in my belly button, saying, "I think him likes the way this smells. It smells good. Now he can smell it too."  She finds toys she played with when she was a baby and brings them to me, "I think the baby will like this mama," she says.  It is all so sweet.  But as long as he's safe in my womb, she's still the baby.

She still crawls into my bed at 3am, snuggling into my arms and falling back to sleep with her head tucked under my chin.  She still runs into my arms with wild abandon, giggling "I love you" and requesting "mommy cuddles" at intervals all day long.  She still climbs into my lap whenever she wants, and she wants that a lot.  And I know this will change somehow, in small subtle ways, once her brother is born.  And that too is oh so bittersweet.

So I will squeeze her a little tighter in these last few weeks of pregnancy. I will hold her a little longer.  I will kiss her cheeks and relish her tiny hands held inside my own. I will breathe her in, my baby, my youngest child for just a few more short weeks.