When I turned 20, I got pregnant.  My my mother and his father forced us to marry.  "We won't accept this baby unless you're married!" they both said to us.  They said they'd never financially help us out or even accept that the baby is their grandchild.  It was totally and completely fucked.  

But later, after I had gotten married and given birth to my son, my now ex-husband was still doing the things he did before he had had kids.  He always wanted to participate in his fantasy football leagues, go to the strip club with his best friend, spend Father's Day weekend partying with his brother at his college dorm, and participating in his dart league.  I wasn't allowed to do any of those things.  My mom was to be a mom.  When I did do things, my parents were expected to babysit, so that meant I never did things.  My in-laws babysat once on my 21st birthday when my oldest son was three months old (and it was a total clusterfuck and one of my stupidest birthdays ever).  But my ex?  He didn't like babysitting alone.  I think he didn't see himself as a responsible adult and parent, and thought he was still the same exact person as before and still just wanted to continue as though me giving birth never happened.  And it was my job to take care of everything that was different, aka everything to do with being a parent.  

But when my son was around two months old or so, we both got the stomach flu, aka gastroenteritis.  And it wasn't pretty.  He couldn't down any breastmilk and I could barely hold down water.  And when a baby can't hold down breastmilk, that's the only thing they drink or eat, so I just thought he was going to die.  But, of course, per true ding-dong fashion, my ex went to his dart league and left us home alone.  He knew damn well how bad my anxiety was, too, but he literally had no empathy or sympathy for anyone, especially me or his baby, so off he went and left us to deal with our sicknesses alone.  

So, I called my mother.  Because that's what you do when you're twenty years old (or really, any age) when nobody else is there for you, your mother is, right?  At least that's what I assumed should happen.  So I called her and asked her to come over until he got home, because I was terrified my baby was going to die because he couldn't hold down fluids.  I had called his doctor to see what to do, and they informed me to just get some in his mouth every however long and see if he could tolerate small amounts.  If so, that would work.  If not, we'd have to go to the ER so he could get an IV.  So, I called my mother.  And she laughed and said "That's your husband's job."  "Did you not hear me?  I may have to take him to the ER."  "Yes, call your husband and tell him to get his ass home to take care of his wife.  It's not my job anymore."  And she hung up.  She was less than a mile away, by the way.  It would take her less than ten minutes to come over, to her childhood home to come help out.  Also, this was 1998.  No cell phones (well, at least not the little ones that everyone could afford yet).  So getting ahold of my husband at the time wasn't easy.  I had to look up the number for the bar in the phone book and have them go find him to call me back.  And he'd only call me back if he wanted to, so I had no promise he'd ever call.  And of course, when he did call me back, he was angry that I was interrupting his game.  

I get my mother being angry at my husband for abandoning me and my baby while being so sick.   I should have been only taking care of myself in that moment and his father should have been taking care of him.  That's how parents work.  But he was a 23-year-old narcissistic man-child who didn't think of anyone but himself.  So rather than coming over and giving me and my son compassion and to help care for us, she threw me to the wolf I lived with and had to hear him bitching and being mean to us for interrupting his game.  Which we'd have been better off without him coming home.  

My mother doesn't have a nurturing bone in her body.  Did she take care of me while sick?  Sure.  She'd give me a bucket or a paper bag to throw my Kleenex in and would make me soup.  But that's the end of it.  Did she frown and say "I am so sorry you're so sick", the way I do with my own children?  Did she run to the store for me when I needed something?  Well, she'd pick up something for me, like nasty-ass Halls cough drops that turned my stomach, while she was already out. But special trips?  Never.  Last night my husband ran out and got our son (the same baby in this post) a Covid test because he's so sick.  And all day we stopped at stores to get him Gatorade and Kleenex and whatever else to help him feel better.  I even made him blended carrot and sweet potato soup (though he didn't eat it, because he was full from the rest of his dinner).  My mom only ever opened a can of condensed chicken noodle soup watered down with tap water.  Oh, and Saltines.  She'd give me Saltines.  But never did she go out of her way or do anything special for me.  I wasn't important enough for her. 

And just like that day when I called her, me being sick always made her angry.  I am not sure why.  She was always severely annoyed with me, having to pick me up from school with a fever or if I woke up sick.  She didn't work, so what on earth was so important that taking care of me, which was her fucking entire job in life at that time, was such a nuisance to her?  Just me existing outside the norm, I guess.  When she adopted me, she had no idea what being a mother entailed.  And when she found out?  She was probably like "Aw hell no!  I ain't doing that shit!"  "But ma'am, that's the minimum you can do for this job."  "Oh yeah?  Watch me.  I bet I can do the least amount as possible!"  "Ma'am, but that's utterly unfathomable to do as a parent!"  Yet, nevertheless, she persisted, and proved them all wrong.  

As I sat there, watching my son suffer yesterday with him feeling so bad, I was reminded of my mother's inability to feel anything for me.  I love my son.  I feel bad when he feels bad.  I listened to his constant coughing and stuffed up nose, and looked at his splotchy red face, and I saw that little baby who I once held in my arms and I worried he would die if I couldn't do my job as a mother to help him keep some kind of liquid in him.  That was the first time he was sick.  And now he's twenty-seven, seven years older than I was when I had him, the same age I was when I met his now father.  And here I am, still worrying about my little boy, tending to him while he's sick.  Even if he didn't live in my home, I'd stay at his house if he asked me to do take care of him.  Because I am capable of love and empathy. And my mother just isn't.  

I never asked her for much.  She will say I was a vortex of need as a kid or some other bullshit to paint her in a good light and me in a bad one (or rather, to make her seem like she was just worked endlessly for me, the child who supposedly "sucked up all of her time").  But I just didn't.  I knew better.  I knew it would make her angry.  And I knew most of the time, she'd just say no.  She lived for and loved to make people feel guilty for asking for their needs to be met with her.  Even just basic ones.  Then if you asked her for something bigger?  Well then, that was the time she got to show just how much you mean to her.  So, if you were someone she hardly knew, she'd slap a smile on her face and do it willingly!  This meant she could look good to you, and she loved to show off.  But if she knew you well?  She will smile to your face, but bitch about it behind your back.  If you were close to her?  She'd show her annoyance, and do it, but make you feel guilty for having to do it.  And if you were her child, she'd flat out laugh at you and say no.  I teetered between the last two for most of my life with her.  She'd do the thing for me, but use it against me later as ammunition.  

She no longer tries to guilt me for not doing things for her on her time table.  She used to say "I see how I rate!"  I can't remember the last time she's said that to me.  She no longer does much of anything at all (other than steal things from the bathroom, which she's still doing).  I am the one doing all the things for her now.  And she just exists.  She doesn't ask me how I am or what I am up to.  She just asks me for the things she needs and unlike her, I get them for her.  I even make special trips to get her the things that she needs, because unlike her, I am not a monster.  

She's no longer a monster either.  She's just an old woman who needs a caretaker.  And I fulfill that duty for her.  She's not my mother, she's my client, and I treat her with the same respect I'd treat anyone who needs help.  She loved to claim she was a caretaker her entire life, but she just wasn't.  She'd go through the motions and do things that needed doing (though not always all of them), but she hated it and resented the person for needing help.  But that's what not having empathy or sympathy does to a person.  I, luckily, have both.  And I know how lucky I am to have those abilities.  I easily could have been born a monster, like her, like my grandmother (my birth-grandmother), and aunt.  But I wasn't.  I was born smart, and kind.  Two things both my adoptive family and birth family are not.  Why did I luck out?  How did I luck out?  I have no idea.  But I did.  And I was born with these blessings and so I use them both quite regularly.  With my family.  With animals.  With strangers.  Everyone.  Even with people who used to be monsters.  

I wasn't born like my mother.  And this Thanksgiving season, that's what I am grateful for.  I looked at my son yesterday, laying in bed so sick, and I knew I was lucky to be able to take care of him.  I am lucky I get to feel compassion and warmth and love for my kids.  I get to enjoy what being a human actually means.  My mother didn't get that.  She's empty inside.  And I feel bad for her.  It's not her fault she was born this way.  And so I feel compassion for her, too.  (though I am going to go allow her to do bad things to me and my family again).  I am grateful for this ability and the ability to be smart enough to distance myself from those that hurt me and my family.  I may have been born into psychotic chaos.  But I am actually the lucky one here.  Yes, they all abused me and I was their victim at one time, but I didn't stay that way.  I get to move beyond it all and feel what it truly feels like to be human.  I get to be happy.  I get to love.  I get to feel compassion.  They didn't get that.  Not for a single day of their lives.

And so, I win.  No matter what they did to me, I win.  And that's all that matters.