What My Daughter's Biological Mother Taught Me About Myself

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.

Anyone can say they would do the right thing, but I learned that I really can. I learned that I am capable of unconditionally loving every one, even a person I resented for many years. My heart sees beyond the anger, betrayal, and alienation it has faced. To the heart of someone who was led astray.

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?

Lessons Learned

I have learned a few things in the last (nearly) 10 years of parenting that I have done.  A few things that I would like to share with you. So ... here it goes.

#1 ----    There's No Sense in Crying Over Spilled Milk

     Back when I was about 14, I use to walk to my best friend's house every morning before school.  This was the place all my friends would meet at because the high school was literally behind her house.  We'd get there and I'd have to get her motivated to get out of bed (she was not.... well is still not a morning person).  Allison has a little sister, her name is Shelby.  On one particular morning Shelby climbed out of her bed and followed us downstairs.  We couldn't get her mom to wake up and we had to leave for school so we turned on some cartoons for her and left her in the living room. Shelby waited for us to leave, walked into the kitchen, got out the milk, and proceeded to throw the entire jug at the giant window in the living room.  Milk went everywhere.  I imagine the scene was much worse than the mess that we walked into because Allison's mom was still working on cleaning it up when we walked through the door at the end of the day.  She told us that Shelby had been covered in it, as well as the couch, the floor, the curtains, the ceiling, and the book case. Someone commented about how she must have been mad, she simply shrugged and said "There's no sense in crying over spilled milk." I remember thinking yea right.. I'd be irate! Little monster child.

However, I have since then cleaned up my fair share of spilled milk.  Spilled spaghetti.  Spilled foundation.  The entire bottle.  All over the inside of my closet.  An entire carton of broken eggs off my living room carpet. 
I feel like I could spend entirely too long on this list so I'll just stop and say my kids spend more time spilling things then changing their clothes... which has been at least three times a day pretty much their entire lives.

What happens every time they do it though?
  
I make my annoyed mom face, grab a rag, and clean it (and usually them) up.  And guess what...... it's gone.  Ta da! Poof it's done.  I move on. 

Why on earth would I want to take something that can be fixed with nearly no effort at all and turn it into something that will stress me out, make them cry, and cause even more disarray in my already chaotic household? 

Parents... clean the f'n spill up and Move. On.

"Ooooh but Megan... Timmy is spilling stuff on purpose. He needs to learn a lesson."

Dude.  
Whip his ass.  Clean the f'n spill up and Move. On.

#2 ----    My Kids Are Not Made of Glass

     On the day I moved out of my parents house Damian was one and a half.  We stayed in the same room for nearly the entire one and a half years of his life.  This room was located at the top of my incredibly steep, eighteen step staircase.  His dad was taking a part his crib inside the room while three or four of my friends and I were hanging out in the doorway with Dami. We were nearly finished moving everything out, and it had gone off without a hitch.  That is until, my darling baby boy squirmed his little self through every stinking one of us standing right freaking there, and fell down every single one of those steps.  My heart nearly came straight out of my chest.  My poor baby.  There was an immediate goose egg, and he roared from the pain.  I cried and held him, convinced he was now going to have brain damage.  What a horrible mother I was.  I can't believe it happened. 
And the award for bad mother of the year goes to.... Megan Nealeigh!

What happened next?

He Survived.
He still loved me.
Definitely no brain damage.

In fact in the years that followed, he tried to fly off the top of his bed and nearly gouged his eye out on the corner of his toy box.  Had his same eye nearly gouged out again by our pregnant cat after he was pressing down on her belly.  Slammed his boy parts in the toilet seat and had to be rushed to the ER.  Fell out of his bedroom window (one story house don't worry!).  In his underwear. 
Of course there's also now the many injuries we've dealt with the girls and even our 6 month old. 
Fingers slammed in bedroom doors.  In car doors.  Bathroom doors.  Dresser drawers.  Kitchen drawers.  In fact, I'm having a hard time finding something these kids haven't smashed their fingers in or with.

Skinned knees, scratches, bumps and bruises happen.  All of the Time! It doesn't make you abusive, it doesn't make you negligent, it makes your children .... children!  They are not made of glass. They are going to fall down, you have to allow them the opportunity to learn how to get back up.  Sometimes with your help, but mostly on their own.  They will thank you for it later.

#3 ----     Sometimes I Have to Just Laugh at Myself

       Kids are going to be kids.  I am by no means a perfect mother.  They make me crazy most days, and I lose my shit more times than I like to admit.  On days where I feel like I'm a red faced fire breathing mama from hell, I have to forcibly remind myself that these kids are only children.  While I want to believe me yelling "You know better!!!" is because they actually do know better, I'd say at least sixty percent of the time they are in fact, still learning to know better.  I have to catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror in the midst of my rage spiral and see how incredibly ridiculous I look.  I have to laugh at myself.  Laugh it all out.  The anger, the frustration, the impatience.  Laugh myself to normal, or as close as I can get.  Then start over.

#4 ----     When in Doubt, Sing it Out

     Our household, on the occasion, is like living in a real life musical.  Honestly, I'd say at least one time every day we will take something we would normally just say to one another and put it into song instead.  I'll sing out things I want my kids to do, or sing out my frustrations of the day, and lately there have been a lot of impromptu re-enactments of Frozen. 

Most people look at me like I'm nuts when I tell them this.  But you tell me, would you have rather had your mom say to you "Susie clean your bedroom and make your bed." 
OR... sing out in a twinkle, twinkle little star melody "Oh my little Susie moon, It is time to clean your room, Grab your toys, and clothes, and trash.  Make sure that you get that sash, Oh My little Susie Head, Don't forget to make your bed!"

I'll give that a second to sink in.......

... Exactly.
Sing more... your kids will love it.

#5 ----     Lovingly Insult the Kiddos

           Ok ok ok... I know how that sounds.  And I'm prepared for all the horrible comments or emails that this lesson will get.  Well... if this blog was actually popular and read by more than one random person every few months. Any who... Let's move on.

If you spent a day in my household, you'd probably be shocked at the things we say to each other.  For instance, at least once every day you hear my husband and I call our children fea or feo, the Spanish feminine and masculine words for "ugly."  We by no means believe our children are ugly.  They are the most beautiful kids on this planet in our eyes, and that will never change.  Our children know this.  We believe whole heartedly that this is largely in part to the insults we lovingly give them every day of their lives. 

Where's My Fea Lulu?  Awww Aubrie you're so fea!  I love you pinche menso Damian feo!! Mitri, my fat man!!  (Google translate what you'd like, be prepared for the shock... ;]) 

Most parents are dumbfounded at these things that so very adoringly pass our lips on the regular.  My children know that we do not think that they are ugly, we do not think that they are stupid, we do not think that they are anything short of incredible.  For every insult they hear, they've heard fifteen wonderful things as well.  We say these things so that they will lose the power they hold on kids when they get older and are out in the world. 

In my mind, I can see my daughters sitting in the lunch room surrounded by kids.  Some of the kids are whispering and pointing, telling my sweet Lulu, or Aubrie, or Penelope, that they are ugly/fat/stupid.  My girls smile at this.  They think of their mom and papa.  They think of the million times they've heard us tell them that they are feas/gorditas/mensas... they know that these are just words because they remember the billions of times they've been doted on for their incredible beauty, intelligence, and the sheer imperfect perfectness that they are.

Call me misguided, naïve, and anything else you'd like.  In 10 years come visit us though and let's see what my kids self images are like.

#6 ----   Toys Are a WASTE of Money

     I could count on ONE hand how many toys my children own with more than five pieces, that stayed all together for more than one week.  Small reminder, my oldest will be 10 in September. 

Then let's explore the avenue of broken vs. intact toys you can find in our house.  That ratio usually works out to about 1:15... as in, for every one INTACT toy, you can find about 15 broken ones.  God forbid we trash these toys, or donate.  Because "we still play with it mommy!!! It's my favorite mommy!"  As they wipe the inch layer of dust off of it.

Half of the time I find them playing with random household items.  The vacuum attachments become swords, blankets become capes, the broom is for flying, and lest we forget mom's high heels!!

I have found that it makes more sense to spend five dollars on something as seemingly insignificant as a purse or a Lego man, then to go out and spend fifty on some la la loopsy doll or random electronic motorized piece of plastic.  The cheap ones, always seem to get played with more, get loved longer, and stick with my kiddos almost all hours of the day.

F U Toys - R - Us... Give me the dollar store any day of the week.

#7 ----    Want It to Last? Hide It.

         I like to think like most moms, there are certain things I've gotten for my children, or passed down, that I would love to keep intact until they're old enough to appreciate it.

This is impossible.  Unless of course, you HIDE IT! 

In order to be successful at this, you have to remember that if you can't outsmart your kid you can out-height your kid. 

I have to do both of these things with my brood.  My three year old Penelope, may be the smartest kid on the planet when it comes to finding things you've intentionally hid from her.  I have had to result to hiding things in places that I can't even reach.  (Thank Goodness my husband is a giant!)

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This is just a small handful of things I've learned obviously.  But as you can imagine, there is never a dull moment in my household and as I type this I hear the beginning of a moment going on right now above my head.

Also, would like to note, in the midst of typing lesson number four.  I had to deal with lesson number one.  In it's most literal meaning.

Happy Sunday all.

-Namaste