For the most part abuse is deliberate. I can’t defend my actions. They too were deliberate. Still, I would like to think that I gave my children a lot of the things my mother gave me, as I remember them. Still I know my offerings were convoluted.
For instance, as a child I was never hungry and neither were my children. At a certain point in my childhood I was made to sit on the floor as I ate my meals. Not my kids. Unless all of us had to sit on the floor due to lack of furniture or something then none of us would. Let’s sit at the table and have fun and delight in our meals. Still, I was a bad parent because we had 2 freezers. I’ve written about my 72-hour drug binges and within more than one of my binges, I went into those freezers and sold some of our meat. And I now know however secretive or not I tried to be, they saw their crackhead mother do it.
It has been said that we parent through the lens of our trauma. I’ll also say we parent through the lens of our contentment. We also parent through our experiences. Like most parents, I never wanted to hurt my children in any kind of way. I wanted them to have what my mother wanted me to have.
When I looked at them, I knew I would never beat them or let them be sexually abused. On this statement I will expound. Early on I left Michigan and went back to Chicago. At one point me and that girl cousin had words and I met up with someone we knew from the old neighborhood. My daughter and I went back to his house. He seemed very hospitable for he even cooked dinner that evening. I went into his bathroom to clean up a bit before dinner. At any rate, after expressing that I didn’t want a relationship with him this soon into seeing him again, there was a physical fight. After leaving there my daughter expressed to me that he played with her private parts while I was in the bathroom. Not penetration, but sexual abuse none-the-less. Never molested? Never abused? Almost. Molestations and abuses are purposeful acts. And although it reared its ugly head in our life it was not permitted. Like my mother would not permit it. We never saw that man again.
To those that believe that physical discipline is abuse, I write to you too. I do not. I did tan their little hynies with visits to our woodshed. In which case, we exited with reassurances to me and themselves that they wouldn’t take anything out of the stores without paying for it or they would never talk to the teacher in such and such way again. I know the differences between beatings and corrections. Their corrections were not against the backdrop of trying to grab the after effects of an extension cord leaving your skin as the next one was already being delivered, not with correction, but loathe. A beating that was being delivered until the deliverer was tired. This is the environment in which I learned to count the licks. It became a game played by me and my little brother. If anything positive came from those beatings I received, was the fact that my children would never receive 75 lashings for childhood infractions because I counted the licks.
Having grown up being beaten like a slave and then learning in my early teen-age years that even slaves were given 10 lashes for this or 20 lashes for that, I personally knew something about the boundaries of hitting a child. Another thing I knew, from my mother, was you can have a pretty good discussion with a belt in your hand. The listening is more clearly heard. That’s called grace. That’s called teaching. A time when you know you are guilty and there is no spanking. In the words of Stevie Wonder – Trying your best to bring the water to your eyes|Thinkin’ it might stop her from whippin’ your behind| I Wish. Yes, I did try to bring water to my guilty little eyes and I remember breathing faster too.
I once read a flyer concerning the type of parent you can be. Some types were:
Dictator. Preacher. Drill Sargeant. Whiner. Being Permissive. Etc. I think I wore many caps.
I do know talking is better than the belt. And talk I did. I talked a lot. There were a lot of things that happened around us in our neighborhood to talk about. I wanted them to know and to be informed and successful. And as time went on, I wanted to know, to see how if I were given the information, nurturing, and expectations that my mother afforded me, how they would fare. So I expounded on things such as you don’t want to compromise your education or have children too early and out of wedlock. And of course, drugs were a no-no for they get you nowhere. Even though these things permeated my life. There came a time when a situation arose and I was about to start a lecture with my baby girl. She said, very respectfully may I add, “Can you shorten this one?” I just shut up and walked away.
Still, I was a bad parent. I did drugs. It was the oldest 2 that witnessed that for from 1986-1993 my drug of choice was crack cocaine. I was a binge addict. I nicknamed myself 72 Hours. After those 72 hours, I was as normal as Dr. Jekyll. Then give it a couple of weeks or so then out came Ms. Hyde. Also on that plate was alcohol, marijuana, and cigarettes. I was a bad parent. Who wants their mother to be any kind of crackhead.
I learned and knew instinctively that “Play allows children to use their creativity while developing their imagination, dexterity, physical, cognitive, and emotional strength. Play is important to healthy brain development. It is through play that children at a very early age engage and interact in the world around them.” (From a poster at the Las Vegas Clark County Library District).
SM was my neighbor; I call her my sister. That makes her my children’s aunt. She was not on drugs but we did drink beer together from time to time. We also shared dinners and had bar-b-qs. She would watch my children after school, or whether I was at work or on one of my binges. This helped to give my children the luxury, the necessity of a child to be age-appropriate and go out and play. That makes for better adults.
I remember waking up to Christmas morning in my mother’s house. The day that toys and the smell of celery and bell pepper goes hand-in-hand. Laughter, giggling, happiness, food, desserts…innocence – I remember a jelly cake, made with a certain Rex jelly. Thank God for chocolate but mom thought jelly was okay so its okay. I no longer take those memories for granted; they are very much cherished. My children woke up to Christmas mornings too. All except one time. That year Christmas was Dec 26th. I somehow explained how Christmas would be the next day, then secretly cried. Hmmm, those discount prices weren’t bad. My children also started their new school year with a new wardrobe. Like my mother did me. That’s important. You need that. To model in the mirror before the school year begins. So is having Christmas at Christmastime.
One year my children bought me a gift. It was a pair of Jordan tennis shoes. You should have seen them. They were at least size 11. They were huge. They awakened my senses. How big did they think I was?
I was a bad parent. I drank. That came with, “Hey kids, let’s go to McDonalds”, with the trip to get more liquor. They and their innocence happily got into the car with me. I would get my mildly to highly intoxicated butt in the car with my children, not only risking them and me, but other citizens as well. Did I know it was wrong? Yeah, a lot of things were wrong. It seems as though I was willing to kill them by drunk driving, but not let them be beaten or sexually abused.
I am grateful. It was pretty bad, but not all bad. For out of that house walked 3 nurses. It makes me glad that they can live and obtain continued growth with their families. I sometimes think maybe 3 doctors could have walked out of those doors. I also think with foresight such as that, they wouldn’t be here.
It has been said that we parent through the lens of our trauma. I’ll also say that we parent through the lens of our contentment and experiences as well. Whatever the lens, I never wanted to hurt my children in any kind of way. I wanted them to have what my mother, an immigrant from the south, wanted me to have. I fell short.