I'd Always Dreamt of Motherhood

***WARNING*** Contains violence and course language. May be triggering for survivors of abuse.

From the time I was a toddler, my parents had groomed me for motherhood. It was the most important job I would have in this life. The sole purpose of my existence as a woman was to propagate and help 'fill the earth' with God-fearing children. I had visions of 20 pairs of adoring eyes staring up at me, while I dutifully cooked and cleaned and trained them for their own perspective destinies.

Little did I know how far that would be from the true path Destiny had in store for me. My exit from my parents' home was less than graceful, but that is another story. If you'd care to read about it, you can find it here, but it has little bearing on my ideals and the reality of Motherhood.

Despite my divergence from the path my parents had so carefully groomed me for, I still longed to become the matriarch of the perfect family. In adulthood, I did come to realize that having 20 children was an unrealistic plan, 4 or maybe even 6 would have fulfilled me.

Looking back, I find it strange how, although I'd chosen to leave the religion of my upbringing the moment I walked out my parents' door, I still held very traditional views of what family life would look like. Once I recovered somewhat from the shellshock of my escape, it was time to pursue my destiny. I was almost nineteen and the clock was ticking. I should have already been engaged and planning a wedding.

So I set out on completing Step 1 of The Perfect Family Plan. I didn't spend a lot of time getting to know my first husband. I didn't think that there was time to waste. It didn't help that just two months after we had started dating his only brother had been murdered. His entire family was bereft with grief and while we sat at the post-funeral luncheon watching his mother sob and wail, he asked me if I would mind if he did something that might just make his mother feel better. I had no idea what he had in mind, and who was I to deny him that?

He stood up beside me, giving me a sideways glance and a wink, then whistled. 'Can I have your attention, please? I know that we are all just doing the best we can to get through this horrible tragedy. Every second of every day it hurts to even breathe, knowing that I will have to live the rest of my life without my brother. I also know that this is the last thing Alan would have wanted for any of us. He lived life to the fullest, and I know that he would want us to do the same, despite the fact that he's not here to share in it with us. With that thought in mind, I would like to announce that Analise and I are getting married!'

I had to quickly cover my mouth, as my stomach instantly retaliated to his announcement. I was beyond perplexed! There had been no proposal. Hell, we had barely even discussed the concept of a future! I'm sure my eyes were like saucers and my skin was void of any color, as I surveyed the room. I couldn't stop thinking of how wildly inappropriate it was to make that announcement at that particular moment. That day was supposed to have been all about Alan, not us! I was speechless.

I will give him credit though. The announcement had certainly had the desired effect on his mother. It had taken but a moment for the words to register in her brain and the moment they did she squealed in excitement. The darkness of grief that had cast shadows in her eyes for days was quickly replaced with sparkling joy. The fat, old woman, whom I'd never seen move without her walker, leaped out of her chair and raced across the room, wrapping me in a hug that I feared would crush me.

Soon the entire room was buzzing with chatter making my head spin. Wedding plans were well underway within mere minutes. The date was set for Alan's birthday, just three weeks away. No one bothered to ask me what my wedding dreams were, they just planned and schemed, and by the end of the day, the only thing left to do was buy a dress. Even the minister had cleared his schedule to accommodate our special day.

I hadn't even been asked. I was blindsided! By the time the shock began to wear off, I was married. The realization of what had happened made me sick. At least I thought that was what was making me sick. Six weeks after the wedding, I found out I was pregnant.

To say I had mixed feelings, would be an understatement. I felt trapped in a marriage to a man I didn't even love. I didn't know that I ever WOULD love him either. He was a self-centered, high-maintenance, overgrown child, but I didn't believe in divorce either. At least the baby would give me someone to love. I could still focus on blossoming into that perfect matriarch of my dreams.

Two weeks later I had my first ultrasound. We were in for yet another surprise! Twins!

My husband had to work the day I had the ultrasound, so I waited on bated breathe to give him the news. I placed the pictures on the fridge. He should have been home by six. At ten, I still hadn't heard from him. I called his best friend to see if they had heard from him. He'd called when he got off work, wanting Joe to go for a drink, but Joe had declined. I told Joe the news and he quickly offered to run down to their favorite watering hole and see if he was there.

Two hours later, Joe's wife Michelle, charged through my door. 'We found him,' she said breathlessly, 'But he's drunk and he's MAD! He wasn't ready to come home yet, but Joe made him.'

The next thing I knew my husband charged through the door, nearly breaking it off of the hinges. Michelle's face was ashen, as she watched helplessly when he grabbed me by the throat and began beating me. I remember Joe trying desperately to pull him off me, and then everything went black.

I woke the next morning to the sound of my husband sobbing. I lay in a pool of blood. Hemmoraging. Miscarrying. He sat beside the bed, clutching the ultrasound photos, and apologizing. I rolled over, burying my face in my pillow, and sobbed. I couldn't bear to even look at him.

I stayed in bed for weeks, only getting up to change my clothes and bedding. He would bring me food, but I still couldn't bear to look him in the eye. He begged me to forgive him, but how do you forgive a man for murdering your children before you ever had the chance to hold them in your arms?

I'd been raised to believe that there was only one valid reason for divorce - adultery. As far as I knew he hadn't cheated, so I had to stay. I laid in bed until my broken heart turned to stone. When I arose it was with a steel resolve. I would be the perfect, subservient wife that God required me to be, but I would never give him children!

There were only 4 people who knew why I had changed and three of them held onto the hope that I would soon get back to my 'old self'. There's no way to completely erase that kind of tragedy though, nor the bitterness and anger that accompanies it. I would never be able to love my husband.

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One afternoon, about a month later, my telephone rang. It was my best friend and she had to tell me something. She didn't want to, but it had been going on too long and she couldn't keep it to herself anymore.

She'd first met my husband at our wedding. He'd grabbed her behind that night. She'd written it off as a drunken lapse in judgment. Unfortunately, it hadn't stopped there. He'd been making advances ever since and he'd just called her from work. He'd regaled her with tales of what a horrid wife I was, how I'd been withholding sex for almost two months. Then he asked if he could come to see her after work.

She had feared that I'd be crushed. She had no idea that she had just given me the key to my freedom from a lifetime of hell. I thanked her for her honesty and hung up the phone.

I packed my bags and made his supper. When he walked through the door I was standing at the stove. He looked at the dining room table, which had not yet been set.

'What the hell!?! I've been out busting my ass ALL day while you sat here at home and you can't even have my supper on the fucking table!?!'

I got a firm grasp on the cast iron frying pan that I'd been stirring on the stove, whipped around, and threw it across the room. Had he not been quite so quick to dodge, it would have nailed him right between the eyes. Instead, it hit the wall behind him, cracking the drywall, and spewing its contents across the dining room.

With eyes as big as saucers, he had the nerve to ask me how I could possibly still be hormonal from the miscarriage.

I marched past him, down the hall to our bedroom, and grabbed my suitcase. As I headed for the door, I yelled over my shoulder, 'Lisa called. She told me everything. Go fuck yourself, cause she's not fucking you either!'

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I spent a few months living with my sister until I secured a job as a live-in nanny and housekeeper. My boss was a single father with a 5-year-old son. He had strict rules about drinking, hard drugs, and boyfriends. Little did he know that, after what my husband had put me through, I never wanted to have sex again, nor did I have any desire to party.

I quickly settled into my new role. The little boy, with his wild, golden curls and big, sparkling hazel eyes, framed by the longest eyelashes I had ever seen, was a delight. He was far from perfectly well-behaved, a devilish little imp, to be honest, but he reminded me of my six brothers. He wasn't out to hurt anyone, he just had a ton of energy, an insatiable curiosity, and had no real guidance until I came into their lives.

His mother had left when he was just a baby. A raging alcoholic and drug addict, she had no interest in being fettered with parental responsibility.

His father was an idealist and workaholic. He'd had visions of having a perfect family, with a ton of kids. They'd married young and he'd gotten a good job. He'd dropped out of high school, but still somehow managed to become a millwright supervisor in just five years.

He'd held the traditional ideals of having a wife that stayed home and tended to the children and home. She'd gotten bored and turned to drugs and alcohol to add a little excitement to an otherwise mundane existence. By the time the boy was born, she'd had enough and walked away.

His family had helped as much as they could and he'd tried to hire babysitters and put the child in daycare, but nothing ever meshed with his work schedule. He would never turn down a call into work, regardless of the time of day. Daycare was just that, daytime hours only, and babysitters proved unreliable, too. It seemed that most liked to quit without giving any notice, leaving him to call on his family. Nobody wanted to be saddled with an extra child for his long shifts, sometimes he put in 16-hour days. Even his own family eventually burned out.

It seemed to be a perfect fit. The man had only one thing in mind ~ retiring by the age of 35. His son would be 7 by then, and old enough that they could enjoy all sorts of things together. As much as I still loved children, I had lost any interest in having a family of my own. This job allowed me to still have a somewhat matriarchal role. I was definitely making a difference in the little boy's life.

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As New Year's Eve approached the man took me aside. By this time I had worked 24/7, for 8 months. He'd been given some time off from work and had planned on taking the boy to their farm so they could enjoy some one-on-one time. I'd have the apartment to myself until January 3rd. If I wanted, I could ring in the New Year with a bang, as long as I was fully recovered and had the place in order by the time he got home.

I did exactly that. I partied so hard that I couldn't even remember how I'd gotten home. I woke up New Year's Day to the smell of bacon cooking and nearly puked.

He handed me a big glass of orange juice and a couple of Tylenol and informed me that I'd better recover... fast. The water lines had frozen at the farm, forcing him to bring the boy home. He was going to have to head back out and get them thawed and he'd need me to look after the boy after all.

Oddly, the nausea hung on. Over the next few weeks, it continued to worsen. Within a few weeks, all I could manage to keep down was vegetable juice, saltines, and Cheezies.

Despite the fact that I insisted I hadn't had sex for a year, the doctor did a pregnancy test. The conversation that followed seemed surreal. Did I know that having sex with someone who is intoxicated was considered rape? Did I want to have an abortion? Did I have any idea who the father was? I left the office in a state of shock and disbelief.

I couldn't for the life of me, figure out who could possibly be the father. I'd partied with my brother on New Year's Eve and he'd said that he put me in a cab and sent me home. I wondered if it had been the cab driver.

I worried about losing my job. I didn't believe in abortion. Besides, this was my 'rainbow'. I was going to be able to fulfill that lifelong dream after all. The man's tiny apartment didn't have room for another person though. He also wasn't paying me enough to raise a baby. I had a lot of things to figure out and only a few months to get it done.

He could see I was distracted and upset when I got home. He barely seemed phased when I told him I was pregnant.

'That would be mine,' he said, without skipping a beat, 'I had to make sure that you weren't a lezbo, after all, you'd gone a LONG time without getting laid. I'll tell you this much... YOU are definitely not gay!'

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I've been told that children conceived through rape somehow manage to carry their mother's trauma. I don't know if that is true. I do know that my son and I had a rough start together. I was a train wreck... for years.

My sister had graciously taken me in, agreeing to help me get on my feet. I couldn't even find a job. It seems no one wants to hire someone that is going to need maternity leave in just a couple of months. Social Services agreed to provide financial assistance, but only if I revealed the name and address of the baby's father.

I had no idea that they would be pursuing child support as soon as the baby was born. Apparently, they are entitled to recoup their money. He countered their suit with an application for joint custody.

I was mortified. I hadn't pressed charges and I asked a lawyer if that would have made a difference. Apparently, it would not. Even criminals have 'parental rights'. I did manage to win sole custody, but he still got visitation every second weekend.

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A few years later, my son came home after a two-week visit with his dad and started talking about sex. He was still a toddler and that word should not yet have even been a part of his vocabulary. I tried not to reveal my terror as I asked him where he had learned the word.

He quite happily babbled about his brother having sex with him when he was with his dad. He told me how good it felt and how much fun it was.

Horrified, I fought tears and the urge to vomit. I waited until he went to sleep and then called the police. They came and took my statement, then returned the next day to question my son. That afternoon, his father called, enraged that I would 'fabricate' such lies.

Charges were never laid. There were conflicting witness statements and my son would have been considered an 'unreliable witness'.

I swore that my son would never go back there. I filed to have his father's rights revoked and have him charged with child endangerment. There wasn't enough evidence to charge him, but there was just enough to provide 'reasonable cause' for the court to order supervised visitation. He never attempted to see his son again, which was just fine by me.

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Sometime later, a family friend told my son that he was a 'rape baby'. He was enraged. He assumed that it meant that I had never wanted him. There was no way I could convince him that regardless of the means of his conception, I had ALWAYS wanted him. He refused to believe that I could possibly love him.

Our relationship became so rocky that by the time he was 13, he moved in with my sister. He quickly discovered that alcohol and drugs would erase his pain and anger.

I had failed him as a mother.

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Now, don't get me wrong, there had been moments worth celebrating while I raised my son.

When he was just a few months old, welfare cut me off of benefits because 'the sperm donor' had been ordered to pay a lump sum for back support and it had put me over the income limit for receiving support. By then I had secured a job and never needed social assistance again.

By the time he was 2, I had found a great deal on a rent-to-own mobile home. By the time he was 4, I had finished paying for my trailer and had secured a similar deal on a ten-acre parcel of land to put it on. I had a vision and I was working hard to build the best life I could for my son and I. I had discovered that my parents were wrong in raising me to believe that I needed a man to provide for us.

Once I came to terms with the fact that I could be independent, I met someone. He was sweet and goofy and he made me laugh. We decided to get married. He sold his house and moved out to my acreage.

Exactly one month before my son's 6th birthday we had a beautiful daughter.

Things went great for a couple of years until he made a foolish mistake. Someone had convinced him that we had the perfect spot for a marijuana grow op. When I found out about it, I made him choose between his drugs and his family. He thought that I was just being paranoid, so he dismantled the grow op, packed his bags, and left, leaving me on my own to raise two young children.

It wasn't always easy, but we managed.

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Despite the challenges I had faced, I learned to love myself. I blossomed into a vibrant and independant woman.

I did eventually meet a man that fell in love with me for who I was and not how I could serve him. He's almost 22 years older than I am and it took a very long time for people to see that I wasn't just a gold digger.

When I moved in with him, I rented out my property and for 17 years I kept it 'just in case.' Last year, I finally sold it. Our farm and the life that we have built together over almost two decades are exactly where I belong.

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When my son was 14, I found out that he had a daughter. She was already 6 months old. Her mother was 17, had FASD and bi-polar disorder, and had come from an unstable family.

When my granddaughter was 22 months old, I was given guardianship of her. My son was only 16 at the time. He still lived with my sister, didn't have a job, and was heavily into drugs at the time. When he signed over his parental rights, he said that he knew that it was the best thing he could ever do for her. My heart swelled as he admitted that even though he was messed up and would likely never be father material, he knew that his daughter would have the best parents possible.

This little girl did not come without challenges. Her mother didn't know that she was pregnant until well into the fourth month. She drank and did ecstasy ever weekend, meaning this precious, beautiful little girl was born with Fetal Alcohol Spectrum Disorder and Attention Deficit Disorder.

Her mother had tried so hard to do give her daughter the best of everything. I remembered being young, scared, and alone, trying to raise a baby by myself. I did everything in my power to support this young woman in being a mother. It wasn't within my power to save the young mom. She died of a drug overdose in 2017.

Thankfully, by then my granddaughter had already been in my care for several years. The trauma of losing her biological mother was minimized by having a safe, stable home and a family that truly loved her.

Despite her challenges, she is blossoming into a bright, kind, caring, and vibrant young woman. I may not have become the matriach of a huge family, with 20 pairs of eyes lovingly watch me dote over their care. I have however, been given a second chance at proving that I am an amazing, loving, and nurturing mother.

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