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Mk…deep seeded thoughts it is. “I’ll not raise my kids the way I was raised”. Yay…or Nay?

I know I’m not the only one that has ever said that to their selves growing up in a strict, awkward household. One parent would try and be the positive one, and of course it was my father that was the rule enforcer, and the “King of His Castle”.

My sister was 6 years older than me so I was always around people that was older than me. It was just natural for me to be in an environment where we smoked cigarettes, pass the joint around, and occasionally sneak alcohol when ever we could. I remember that my sister always was aloud to do damn near anything she wanted to do. If she was told “NO”. Bahaha! She’d cunningly find a way to do it regardless. She rarely cared about the consequences of her actions. She didn’t think. She acted. If she wanted something bad enough she didn’t stop until she got exactly what she wanted. I tried to be like her so much. Trying to find my own role in this thing we call life. I always thought everyone knew and was aware of things as they happened. Life was a stage, and they were all actors. No one needed direction. They knew what was going on and I had absolutely no fucking idea of what I should do, things I was supposed to say. If I weren’t here would life still carry on without me? Would I be missed? What was I supposed to become whenever I grew up and became an adult? Was I going to be like them? The rules I had to obey.

The things I had no choice but to do. Sharing fucking bath water!!! Seriously!! That’s disgusting and completely uncalled for. It made me so sick to know I had to step into water that had their dead skin cells floating in. I remember for sure saying that I would never make my kids do this disgusting, penny pinching scam. All because my father was trying to save money and be resourceful. It’s just your momma’s water. It’s okay because she’s my mother and I know she doesn’t have cooties. That’s how he justified his actions when I would object and try refusing to have to do it. I can still remember seeing the floating hairs of the legs that were shaved right before it was my turn. Shaving cream and soap residue floating right at me, only for me to splash it away and stand up. I’d sneak and turn the faucet on. The stream running slowly and quietly so he couldn’t hear it. Pouring the clean water over me with a cup we had in there for when we brushed our teeth. My mother right by my side warning me to hurry up so I didn’t get caught. She didn’t want to make us do some of the things we had to. Such as that right there. She also had to listen to my father. He was the authority figure, and that was that. He decided what we ate for dinner. If we were aloud to have company or go anywhere. On my part it was never.

I always felt left out growing up in her shadow. She went through a lot of shit being a beautiful, blonde haired, blue eyed angel. Those were always the ones I wanted to be better than. why did it have to always be someone with blonde hair and blue eyes that did good or was looked upon with permission to things I wasn’t ever aloud to do. Sounds stupid I know. I was always biased of people with those specific traits. I categorized them in a group all their own. Everyone that made fun of me in school always had blonde hair, and blue eyes. I called them, “The Preps”.

“The Preps”, ran the high school I attended. All those kids whose parents had money for them to be able to participate in extra curricular activities. Kid’s whose parents had the money to buy them their first car. Such was a tradition when I was growing up. I could only sit back and wish. My father had already told me I would have to work for mine. He hardly cut any slack either. Like he wanted me to be that kid that was famous on the ball team but him being the hypocrite he was, didn’t ever want to invest any money for me to be able to do those things I so dreamed of. I also wanted them to be sitting in the bleachers cheering me on to make the shot before the buzzer sounds. Shit. He never took me to a single practice, and didn’t even attend my very first (and only) game. The coaches couldn’t keep being my mode of transportation. They had their own lives to live outside of school and the basketball team. So I became more of a burden than being a good enough player with the skills, worth picking up and taking home for every game or practice. It was nice to be noticed for once though. I felt I was worthy of being “one of them”.

As the grown woman I am today. I wonder if my son thinks along the same lines I did when I was his age. Wondering where my place in this big ol’ world is.

When I’m sitting and conversating with him. I study him intensely. But not where I’m gawking and he realizes it. Not only would he become uncomfortable. He would totally shut down and put his disguise back on. He hides behind this asshole persona. Always cut dry humor. Sarcastic as fuck. I always wondered how in the hell he could be so much like his biological father when he was never even around for him growing up. He met him for the first time when he was 10 years old. It was a hard decision and I debated on it for days before I let it happen. I don’t know exactly what I was expecting to happen. Would it be like in a movie? Where it would be so heart wrenching it made you cry seeing it? Would he open his arms and envelope him in a hug returning the same emotions he thought he was getting? From this man he was told about his whole life growing up? Yes it was a great scene. I’ll admit that. I witnessed it first hand. It threw me for a loop seeing “sperm donor” show such emotion as if he missed him his entire life. It was after all just an act. I knew it before I even entertained such thoughts of him becoming a apart of his life. Not unless there was something in it for him though. He ended up visiting twice in the same year.

The second time he came down from Chicago, he brought Nick’s step brother with him. It was his brother that I and his other partner were pregnant at the same time with. He absolutely freaking loved it. He wasn’t alone anymore. He had another sibling that he could get to know and try and form a bond with. I liked it too though. He was another copy of their “sperm donor”. It’s crazy how strong the genes can be in a strand of DNA. My son is an exact replica of his biological father. Don’t know him on no intimate level, and acts just like his sarcastic ass. How?? Ugh!! The questions that run rampant through this head of mine when it comes to my son…I want to figure him out. He’s had so many interests and hobbies over the years. From drawing the most amazing pictures, with the most intricate detail that you wouldn’t think he drew it himself. To taking broken electronics apart that were broke. Only so he could fix it and put it back together with it working again. My husband has tried to get him interested in doing body work. That way he’d always have a trait to fall back on if his current occupation, fast food industry, didn’t go the way he had planned. He’d have a way to make money regardless if he was legally employed or not. Body work can be a good income. Especially if you are as good as my husband is. Years and years of hands on experience. Having owned his own body shop in the past. He’s the perfect teacher. The patience and tolerance to teach, and show him the “tricks of the trade”.

All I know is that I want nothing but the absolute best for my son. For him to find his place in this world and be happy, I can’t wait to see. To be excited, and listen to him when he’s telling me all about whatever it is that has him so pumped for life and to strive for the good. He knows that he’s going to fail somewhere along the line. However, he also knows to pick his-self up, dust himself off, and continue moving forward. Storing the knowledge of his failure and what he did wrong so he knows not to do that again. Oh, I can’t wait for the day to come. Instead of me coming home from work, waking him up for his job. He’ll have his own home and mode of transportation. The day I’ll see him pull up in the driveway coming over to visit, instead of moving in because he was kicked out by his roommate he got into it with. The day he looks at me not just as his mother, but as the one who taught him to fight his mental demons. Remind him that he’s the one in control of himself. Not his “negative feed” of thoughts telling him he can’t.

Maybe for the day for him to tell his father and I, “You guys were right”! For him to know all we wanted was the best and for him to succeed in everything he did.

I think I may have made some headway this morning in telling him that I’m calling him on his shit. All last week he told me how he couldn’t wait for work this week because he was scheduled almost 40 hours. I was listening. But honestly it went in one ear and right out the other. Why? I know him and he’s too much like me. When I worked where he’s currently employed. We closed at midnight. Now he’s coming home before 10pm most nights. They changed their store hours due to the COVID. Okay. I’ll give him that one. What about the times he’s faking being sick so he can get off early just to come home and jump on his X-Box? That shit is uncalled for. Irresponsible as hell. So yes. I called him on his shit and made him tell me, “I’ll show you guys”, “I’ll prove to you I can do it and I’ll have my own place soon”. He volunteered to go in tonight because someone called in. Truth? Or naw? Only time will tell. All the while, I’ll continue being the lead example. Showing him what responsibilities are and how they should each be handled.

Am I on the right path? Was I speaking clearly enough for others to understand me, telling you all the thoughts in my head? Of how I pray things to work out the way they were intended? For him to learn from my mistakes of what not to do?

Time will only tell…

By tallgirl07

I have always loved expressing myself through words. I have been a bookworm since I started reading I think. So expressing myself through writing has forever been super easy for me. Now if I could just teach everyone who didn't know how, how to read, then they'd be able to read all the fascinating literature out there. I'd go crazy if I couldn't curl up to a good book on a rainy day if I wanted to. I work with the public. So I was outside a couple days ago typing away on my 2nd hand chrome book, and a nice gentleman started conversation about how long it took to charge. I said not long for an older model. He said he knew, about the older model I was working with. I proceeded to tell him I was trying my hand at writing a book. He turned out to be an avid bookworm himself. He gave me nothing but encouragement to finish the book. I like to tell myself I can do anything. But we all know how some people should just stick to their profession, well I'm gonna keep trying. I won't stop until I know without a shadow of doubt I can't succeed. Then maybe I'll put my pencil down, or in my case now, close my chrome book for good. Something tells me I won't have to just yet though.

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