I have come to realize a few things about myself over the last six years. Borderline profound realizations that may have never been recognized if it wasn't for my daughter's biological mother. A woman I spent the better half of six years hating. A relationship that began with conflict and ended even worse when she was killed last year. If it weren't for the middle portion of our time together I believe that my daughter's life could've taken a very different turn.
We've never had the most conventional family dynamic. In fact the first conversation her and I had involved her standing in my front yard at midnight trying to get me to hit her. She was four months pregnant and didn't like learning that me and my husband had been seeing each other.
Now having said that, let's get one thing straight.
They had been split up several months and weren't together when she got pregnant. I'm not a homewrecker. Plus, she was already seeing the man that eventually came in between us and our daughter. The man who later on down the road became responsible for her death.
The next two years became an uphill battle for us. Having to watch everything we did because every couple of months she would get upset about something and cut all contact off for a month at a time. Eventually increasing to two months, and finally two full years.
For a long time we were angry with her. Him too, but mainly her because we didn't fully see the way she was being controlled.
The times where we were copasetic always began with "family meetings." Her and him would sit with me and my husband and we'd listen to her tell us what we were doing wrong. It was hard to handle. I don't close my mouth for anyone, and a couple of times it got the better of me. My consequence was the time we lost with our little girl. I learned to hold my tongue. And the few times I really let it go are situations I won't talk about, but know they were justified. I learned to close my mouth for my daughter. I learned that my kids are the only people on the planet that I will surrender for.
After these family meetings we would soak up every minute with our daughter. Even if we had to deal with random drop ins after her boyfriend got home from work. He missed the baby all day. He wants to spend an hour with her. Then we'd get a phone call that typically came at the end of that hour explaining how she fell asleep or wasn't feeling good. Our visit was over. We learned to treasure each moment with her.
It's hard to live a life like that. We moved twice to appease her. We followed all of her rules. We did everything we could to be with our daughter.
It took my youngest daughter being born before everything finally started working out. I spent so much time praying during her pregnancy. I picked out her name carefully. I chose it with the hope her birth would bring us peace within this blended family we had. Eventually settling with a name that gave her initials that literally translated to "peace." (A misspelled version PAS instead of the actual spelling in Spanish of PAZ).
My prayer was answered for nearly a full year. Starting from the moment I watched this woman hold our daughter's little sister on my living room floor. Incredibly smitten. It was if I was seeing someone completely different. In that moment I learned to look beyond the life we had been living the last two and a half years. I accepted where we were and you could see she had too.
We finally had a family. It wasn't perfect, but it was ours. I think it could have gone on like that forever if we would've stayed in that house. Life had other plans for us though. My husband's job eventually taking my family six hundred miles away from her.
We caught one last glimpse of what we had left on our visit home for Christmas. Eleven solid months in of us finally getting along. The first and last "family" Christmas we had together. After the new year she pulled away from us. Her boyfriend erasing us from their life. Erasing the memory of us from our daughter. Pulling both of them into a life of drugs and solitude. Changing phone numbers and moving to keep us away. Hiding our little girl's face anytime they'd run into our friends and family. Keeping to themselves.
It was during these two years I learned the most about the kind of person I was compared to the person I wanted to be. I learned how to take resentment out of my heart for the person who stole a piece of our family. To pray more for her than myself. I learned how strong I had to be for my husband and the rest of our children. We had a permanent ugly grey cloud hanging over us. A hole in our hearts. I learned how to forgive.
It all came to a violent end for us January 22, 2014. The day she lost her life in a car accident. My youngest daughter's third birthday. Nearly three years after that moment in my living room. Two years and twenty-two days after the last time she let us see our daughter.
Ever since I got the phone call my thoughts have been focused on what's best for my daughter. I put my mind in the habit of first thinking what I would want a woman in my position to do; and then considering if the decision I make could be one I can stand by if my daughter ever questions me. If I can feel confident explaining to my daughter when she's older why I did what I did, then it's the right decision to me.
Despite everything we had been through. Despite seeing the heartbreak my husband went through because he never got to fix our family. Despite watching it break all over again when he watched her boyfriend slumped over and drooling in the front row of her funeral. Completely high. Despite seeing the hurt all over his face when we finally reunite with our little girl and we hear her say "I already have a daddy."
I learned my love for my family is stronger than anything in this world. I learned that I married the most compassionate person I know. He is grieving his first love. I can't even begin to describe what that feels like to watch. But, I learned that I'm not jealous because of it. I'm not angry. I understand.
I learned that I am grieving too. That even though we were in such a horrible spot when she died that my heart aches because she's gone. I learned that I want my daughter to know the person her biological mother really was not the person that man made her.
I have pictures of her all over our house. We write letters to Heaven. We celebrate her birthday. Mother's Day. We remembered her on the anniversary we lost her. We feel her with us every day. We share stories of her all the time.
I learned that I can help my daughter keep her memory of her mommy. So I write for her. I write my daughter's memories in a book; I edit photographs to eventually put in a scrapbook for her; I save small reminders of their life together to pass on someday; I plan for events that haven't even gotten here yet. Her quinceañera. Her graduation. Her wedding day. The day she becomes a mom. I pour my heart out on her mother's memorial page. I learned how much it matters to me that she remembers her.
We didn't spend as much time as we should have getting along; but, we were and still are a family for better or worse. Now, in the aftermath of the accident, I'm starting to see that my actions aren't as common as what I'd like to believe they'd be. Actions that can be traced back to this woman, the woman who gave birth and for four years raised, loved, and looked after my second little girl.
Her first mom wasn't perfect. Far from it. But, she was a new mom. Like the rest of us, she was still trying to figure this whole parenting quandary out. She was implementing the plans she made for her life the best way she knew how. Even if it didn't make sense to us.
In a lot of ways her and I were alike. But in the ways we weren't is where I grew as a mother most. She had a control about her that intrigued me in some ways. Made me question a few of my parenting techniques. Most importantly though, it taught me a lot about what I really wanted for my kids.
There's no question she loved her daughter. She loved her with an intensity you can feel reaching out through their pictures on our fireplace. You can witness it sitting next to my five year old on the couch. Her mother's sapphire eyes on her father's round face, zoned into Monster High. Nice and cozy under her mom's Pooh blanket; arm wrapped around the monkey her grandmother made out of a pair of her old jeans. She carries her mother's love with her every day. This love that showed me how much I love my own children. All five of them.
What she taught me is something I can never thank her for. She taught me I can love another person's child far beyond whatever I ever imagined possible. That family is so much more than genetics. Family is pure, unconditional love. Family is looking past the differences that pull you apart, and instead focusing on the reasons you need to stay together. Time is a fickle bitch, and if you don't take advantage of the minutes you have together you will one day wind up spending every waking moment tormented by what should've been and wasn't.
So I leave you with this final thought, I learned that I can not accept praise for doing the right thing. What I do for my daughter is what anyone in my position should do. Why should that make me "amazing?" I'm not. I'm a mother. Wouldn't you do the same?
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