My mom was a hero, picking up the family and keeping us safe. Safer than safe; we learned to know things. My mom took impossible care of six kids on her own, strong and certain that she could discover answers that would keep us healthy. Against impossible odds--a past filled with abuse and a basket full of challenged children--she carried us to women's shelters and safe homes, forever remaining the insistent and actively thinking student. Always aware of us children and our needs while climbing and building mountains of knowledge for our sake.
But men were held at a distance, unpredictable and unlikely to lead to safety. We learned about men, we knew we wanted them around, but we were unable to completely trust them. Unable to learn from them or live as equals.
Leaving me lost.
Until my first son was born.
His dad told me he would take care of me because he thought I was appropriately pretty and young. He was looking at the container I was lost inside, and promising to buy it things. He was lying, but I wasn't expecting much from him anyway. I had been hoping, but never expecting.
Then I gave birth to my son. My son, who would one day become a man. And when his tiny brown wrinkly hand wrapped around my finger, and his hungry mouth hunted my breast, our love and needs locked and I knew I was in there somewhere.
I felt him see me when I saw him.
I began to feel found but was so deeply lost the signal was faint.
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