My childhood memories of my mother consist of her constant worrying
about whether we're safe, warm, and not hungry. I remember those
annoying mitten holders I was forced to wear on the sleeves of my winter
coat to make sure I always had my gloves. Or those annoying snow pants I
had to fight my way into. When my brother came home from school with
his eye practically hanging out the socket from getting beat up by
bullies, I remember the way she jumped into her car, tires screeching to
confront them. I also remember thinking my mother was going to prison,
but it worked out fine. ; ) She put her own health on the line, working
constructions jobs to keep food on the table. All these things she did
for us. She's the type of mother I want to be one day.
What I
don't understand is how someone could just throw their flesh and blood
away without a passing glance. For nearly a year, my mother has been
raising her niece's, my cousin's baby. The whole saga started last
January when she received a call that my cousin was giving birth at the
hospital. It came as a surprise to us since we'd just talked to the
girl, who's in her early twenties back in October and she hadn't
mentioned anything about even being pregnant. Since the girl's mother,
my mom's sister had just moved out of state, my mother went to see about
her and the baby.
Mom
immediately fell in love with the 3 pound preemie and promised to do
everything she could for her. Since my cousin was close to getting
evicted from her place and the government was in her business because
the child was born with drugs in her system, my mother came to the
decision to take care of the baby until she could get herself together. I
was skeptical at first, fearing that Mom was taking on too much, like
she tends to do. With my mother, myself, and my two sisters sharing an
apartment, it was a group effort but we all did our part to take care of
the baby from the time she left the hospital.
Knowing
the mother could barely take care of herself, Mom paid for everything
the baby needed out of her pocket, from clothes, to diapers and
furniture. Mom provided while all the girl and her family could offer
were thank you's. Mom isn't the type to worry about getting paid back
for her efforts, she does it because it's the right thing to do and God
will see to her having what she needs. The sleepless nights and 3 am
feedings belonged to my mother, who's staring down the throat of 60,
works 40 hours a week and goes to dialysis 3 times a week.
In
the meantime, she coached my cousin on getting support for the baby,
including WIC for the formula, and making sure the baby got part of the
father's income from the government. My cousin came to get the baby late
in the spring and 3 months later we got a call from her saying that she
needed us to take the baby again.
The
relationship with the baby's father was taking an abusive turn and she
was moving out of town to be with my aunt. The baby was returned to us
in deplorable conditions. Her eczema was out of control, diaper rash had
run rampant, and the clothes my mother sent when she gave her back the
first time were filthy with most of them having to be thrown away. Once
my mother got her home the poor thing guzzled three bottles of milk
until we could go get more formula. The vouchers for the food and milk
that the government gave for free had not been used and the lump sum of
money my cousin received for her child, definitely wasn't spent on her.
My
cousin left with promises of sending a portion of the baby's money
every month for expenses, but that's one promise that hasn't been
fulfilled. Since she skipped town we've only seen $100 of the promised
money and we haven't heard from her in nearly two months. When she does
call it becomes an 'I'm a bad mother' docudrama worthy of Lifetime TV
where she wants to rope you into feeling sorry for her. The focus turns
to her, not to the baby she left. I see that the longer she's away from
her child the more disassociated she becomes, the bond between mother
and child broken.
The baby is doing just
fine and approaching her first birthday. She's smart, loves to talk, and
is happy as she can be. But kids grow up and one day she's going to
have questions. How will her mother explain why she abandoned her and
took off with the money that was intended for her care? How will she
tell her daughter she didn't do all she could to make sure she was taken
care of? Isn't that what mothers are supposed to do?
Showing posts with label child support. Show all posts
Showing posts with label child support. Show all posts
Thursday, January 2, 2014
Wednesday, November 13, 2013
Kids Grow Up
I am an adult child of divorce. I was about sixteen when my parents
decided to end things. To make a long story short, my father wanted to
do what he wanted and my mother wasn't having it.
I watched as my mother, a housewife for eighteen years, pulled out the newspaper the day after he left and went to work the next day. She worked jobs she shouldn't trying to put food on the table. Recycling plant, cleaning toilets, construction; it didn't matter, if the money was green she took the job. We may have had utilities off from time to time, but there was always food on the table, even though it may not be the gourmet cuisine you wanted. We learned how to make food last on a limited budget and we were never on any public assistance. The struggle bonded us deeply.
Now my father on the other hand was living the life he wanted with no responsibilities to tie him down. He went and married the woman he was seeing while he was married to my mother, about two months after the divorce was final. He went and bought that brand new red Mustang, not the type of car you would expect from someone with three kids. He wouldn't call to check on us, but to brag about where he'd been on his vacation. He couldn't come for his scheduled visits but he made sure we saw his shiny new sports car. He could care less that his kids were hurt, scarred and traumatized, it was all about him.
The same could be said for his parents. We were their only grand children, so on Christmas they doted on us with the huge gift boxes from Hudson's. My grandmother would go all out with the beautiful hand knit sweaters and name brand items for kids. After my parents split, that was it. No Christmas gifts, no birthday wishes, nothing. As we struggled, no one called to see if the kids had shoes, coats, or even food. We were cut off completely, even though they only lived eight minutes away from us.
Now, the time in the hour glass is in our favor. We're stable adults now, no drug use, no illegitimate children, my brother had his growing pains as a young black male growing up in Detroit, but these days he's a workaholic and he's fine. We're as close to Mom as we've ever been.
Mr. Sherman on the other hand is another story. Having worked for Ford since he was eighteen, he makes a nice salary, but you can never tell. His life is a never ending spiral of dysfunction. The divorce from wife number three was final a couple months ago, so I know he's looking for his next flavor of the month. He has no choice but to flit from woman to woman because he has no bond with his children and has to assimilate himself into their family. He's the type who likes to rewrite history, like he was Cliff Huxtable; I have no problem reminding him what a terrible father he was.
Our relationship with him is awkward, like we're operating at two different frequencies. When we talk he makes juvenile jokes, like he doesn't realize we're grown adults now. He doesn't know me. He can't tell you my favorite food or color. He's even clueless about me being a writer, which I plan on keeping that way. Whatever he is, I'm stuck with him.
The 'accessories' are optional. We eventually reconnected with my grandparents a when we learned after about fifteen years when we learned my grandmother was dying of cancer. We visited the hospital a couple times, but I felt the coldness, like I'd wandered into some random stranger's hospital room. How pathetic is it when your own grandparents have to ask if you have any children? After a knockdown drag out debate with my brother and sister, we attended the funeral and started visiting with my widowed grandfather again.
Every week or every other week, we'd visit, go out to dinner or a movie. We even invited him over to dinner a couple times and my sister called him every day. A couple years later, a few of her daily calls went unanswered and he called back when he felt like it. He had a new woman in his life and little by little we could feel that chasm opening up again. My sister trying to be nice tried to give him another shot, but the writing was on the wall for me. Dear old sweet granddad used us as placeholders to keep from being lonely until he found another wife. After that I was done with the Sherman family completely. It's been about two and a half years and I haven't looked back.
Which brings us to the very reason I'm so pissed today. Sunday my father calls with his normal chit chat which results in him holding the phone in silence and me trying to come up with conversation because he doesn't know what to say. Before he ends the call, he tells me to call my grandfather on Tuesday, cause it's his birthday. Huh?
Today I had a missed call from my father and I know what he wants. If I didn't know what he wanted, the text with my grandfather's phone number is a clue.
I'm not calling him. Call me cold, callous, heartless, whatever, I'm done with these people. I'm not a toy you can take out of the box and play with whenever some one feels the need. My grandfather has kicked us to the curb twice; once as children and once again as adults, after we gave him a second chance. This isn't the Oprah show where the long lost relative is hiding behind the curtain. Fake isn't in me, so I'm not doing the loving granddaughter routine, pretending every thing is fine and make him feel better. I don't think so.
People need to know that kids aren't stupid. They may be little and defenseless and can't do anything when you break promises or break their hearts. But they grow up. Be careful what you throw away.
I watched as my mother, a housewife for eighteen years, pulled out the newspaper the day after he left and went to work the next day. She worked jobs she shouldn't trying to put food on the table. Recycling plant, cleaning toilets, construction; it didn't matter, if the money was green she took the job. We may have had utilities off from time to time, but there was always food on the table, even though it may not be the gourmet cuisine you wanted. We learned how to make food last on a limited budget and we were never on any public assistance. The struggle bonded us deeply.
Now my father on the other hand was living the life he wanted with no responsibilities to tie him down. He went and married the woman he was seeing while he was married to my mother, about two months after the divorce was final. He went and bought that brand new red Mustang, not the type of car you would expect from someone with three kids. He wouldn't call to check on us, but to brag about where he'd been on his vacation. He couldn't come for his scheduled visits but he made sure we saw his shiny new sports car. He could care less that his kids were hurt, scarred and traumatized, it was all about him.
The same could be said for his parents. We were their only grand children, so on Christmas they doted on us with the huge gift boxes from Hudson's. My grandmother would go all out with the beautiful hand knit sweaters and name brand items for kids. After my parents split, that was it. No Christmas gifts, no birthday wishes, nothing. As we struggled, no one called to see if the kids had shoes, coats, or even food. We were cut off completely, even though they only lived eight minutes away from us.
Now, the time in the hour glass is in our favor. We're stable adults now, no drug use, no illegitimate children, my brother had his growing pains as a young black male growing up in Detroit, but these days he's a workaholic and he's fine. We're as close to Mom as we've ever been.
Mr. Sherman on the other hand is another story. Having worked for Ford since he was eighteen, he makes a nice salary, but you can never tell. His life is a never ending spiral of dysfunction. The divorce from wife number three was final a couple months ago, so I know he's looking for his next flavor of the month. He has no choice but to flit from woman to woman because he has no bond with his children and has to assimilate himself into their family. He's the type who likes to rewrite history, like he was Cliff Huxtable; I have no problem reminding him what a terrible father he was.
Our relationship with him is awkward, like we're operating at two different frequencies. When we talk he makes juvenile jokes, like he doesn't realize we're grown adults now. He doesn't know me. He can't tell you my favorite food or color. He's even clueless about me being a writer, which I plan on keeping that way. Whatever he is, I'm stuck with him.
The 'accessories' are optional. We eventually reconnected with my grandparents a when we learned after about fifteen years when we learned my grandmother was dying of cancer. We visited the hospital a couple times, but I felt the coldness, like I'd wandered into some random stranger's hospital room. How pathetic is it when your own grandparents have to ask if you have any children? After a knockdown drag out debate with my brother and sister, we attended the funeral and started visiting with my widowed grandfather again.
Every week or every other week, we'd visit, go out to dinner or a movie. We even invited him over to dinner a couple times and my sister called him every day. A couple years later, a few of her daily calls went unanswered and he called back when he felt like it. He had a new woman in his life and little by little we could feel that chasm opening up again. My sister trying to be nice tried to give him another shot, but the writing was on the wall for me. Dear old sweet granddad used us as placeholders to keep from being lonely until he found another wife. After that I was done with the Sherman family completely. It's been about two and a half years and I haven't looked back.
Which brings us to the very reason I'm so pissed today. Sunday my father calls with his normal chit chat which results in him holding the phone in silence and me trying to come up with conversation because he doesn't know what to say. Before he ends the call, he tells me to call my grandfather on Tuesday, cause it's his birthday. Huh?
Today I had a missed call from my father and I know what he wants. If I didn't know what he wanted, the text with my grandfather's phone number is a clue.
I'm not calling him. Call me cold, callous, heartless, whatever, I'm done with these people. I'm not a toy you can take out of the box and play with whenever some one feels the need. My grandfather has kicked us to the curb twice; once as children and once again as adults, after we gave him a second chance. This isn't the Oprah show where the long lost relative is hiding behind the curtain. Fake isn't in me, so I'm not doing the loving granddaughter routine, pretending every thing is fine and make him feel better. I don't think so.
People need to know that kids aren't stupid. They may be little and defenseless and can't do anything when you break promises or break their hearts. But they grow up. Be careful what you throw away.
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