index | archives | notes

Tuesday, Nov. 10, 2020
1:40 a.m.
<< [
Nevereverwhere ] >>

17 weeks tomorrow and I feel the little flutters that are supposed to be her. She's too small for me to feel definite kicks yet, so it's flutters, or gas bubbles, or rolling. I think of her at the ultrasound, waving her little limbs around.

I read that when you carry your daughter, she also forms her own eggs while still in you. You grow your daughter and your grandchildren at the same time.

I read that other women can't wait to tell their mothers they are pregnant. Can't wait to have their mothers stay with them after the baby comes, and pass down the generational knowledge.

What knowledge would my mother have? My mother, never interested in us, never able or willing to protect us from her husband. My mother, whose advice has always been, don't be me, don't make my mistakes, the same dream my father's mother had for me.

Don't ever be financially dependent on a man. And I haven't. But surely there's more than that?

The older I get the more blame I place on my mother, less on my father. Dad was always broken, from a long line of broken people, but mom wasn't raised in abuse. She just lacked whatever maternal instinct is supposed to tell you, my kids deserve better. I will be better for them.

I looked at my husband one day after we saw our tiny girl flailing about. I told him what my mother did is unconscionable, because if husband ever hurt my girl the way my dad hurt us, I would absolutely leave. No question. Husband and I love each other more than anything. A true love, not the unhealthy codependency of my parents that veers into physical and emotional abuse. The kind of love where husband will literally kill himself if anything happens to me. And husband agrees--if I ever pulled the things my dad pulled it would be over. Because that's what you do to protect your children.

I read most women can't wait to tell their mothers they are pregnant. I daydream about how long I can refrain from telling mine.

<< | x | >>