I Always Wanted to Be a Mother
Most importantly, I wanted my children to feel safe.
- Sensitivity note — memories of sexual abuse included in this essay.
Images of sexual abuse pervade my childhood memories.
Full of joy from running in the fields with my dog, I swung open the door from the mudroom into the kitchen. I heard my sister pleading and crying. There, on the other side of our clawfoot oval walnut table, I saw her pinned to the floor with my brother on top, hurting her.
With no adults at home, I ran to our rotary dial party-line phone and froze when she begged me not to pick up the receiver with a simple word. “No.” He stared up at me, “You call, and you’re next.”
My sister and brother were five and four years older than me. I was nine years old. I was in my forties when this memory came back.
As I grew older, he began to abuse me, though not as harshly. Nonetheless, the damage inflicted through the regular threats and fear of abuse took its toll. I learned I was helpless against a man. I was not worthy. The male species was more important and stronger.
My mom was aware of the abuse but seemed to do nothing about it. My paternal grandmother learned about it when she heard my muffled screams from inside one of the chicken coops. Grandma N. opened the door and saw him holding a knife to my throat, threatening to kill me if she said anything. His other hand was on my developing chest; previously, he was rubbing the knife along my thigh, threatening me.
My childhood was a kaleidoscope of contrasts. I was raised surrounded by generational love and a plethora of animals but haunted by a tornado that could rise out of nowhere and strip me of my sense of self. I felt loved and protected on one hand and abandoned to fend for myself on the other. I lived with a brother who was deeply caring, protective, and helpful while simultaneously representing the villain in my nightmares, both real and imaginary.
As I grew, I wanted only one thing. To be a mother.
I never wanted to be anything else. When I was three, I desperately wanted to have puppies. I didn’t want to buy one from a pet store or have a female dog with her own puppies. I wanted to give birth to puppies. I was crushed when I learned that I couldn’t, but my maternal grandma (Grandma B.) appeased me. “Baby girl, having babies is the greatest gift of all.” I held on to that dream.
At sixteen, the gynecologist told me I was developing endometriosis, and if I wanted to have children, I needed to try by twenty-five. With my former husband, I got pregnant when I was twenty-four. I didn’t experience issues in conceiving. Who knows if we could have waited, but I was more than ready; I had been ready since I was three.
Our first, a son, was born a few months after I turned twenty-five. I miscarried before giving birth to our second, a girl, a few months after I turned twenty-nine. Our surprise child, another girl, came when I was thirty-eight. Grandma B. was right. There is nothing in life more precious than your children.
Grandma B. was a great role model.
She loved fiercely and enveloped us in affection. When we needed anything, she was always there. I raised my children with the same focused dedication to ensure they knew how important they are, how deeply loved they are, and what I expected of them as kind and caring individuals. I wanted them to feel a sense of worth and confidence in themselves.
From an early age, they were strong-minded, loving, and caring. While they were subjected to an unequal partnership between their parents, my girls were safe from my story of generations of sexual abuse. I never worried about leaving my son with my daughters. During the few times when my brother was around during visits to my parents, I made sure my brother could never repeat the familial pattern of abuse.
These actions were taken without my children or former husband being made aware of the history of abuse in my family.
I felt a lot of shame about my family, especially after I married. What would he think of the family he joined? We never talked about it. After twenty years of marriage, I entered therapy, and my therapist thought it was important for us to talk about it. Unfortunately, it was too much for him to hear. While I didn’t understand at the time, I do now. The therapist helped me recall memories of my childhood that had been suppressed for decades, as well as the emotional abuse I felt in my marriage.
I learned through therapy that my relationships with men would never be good until I understood how my past impacted my behavior in the partnership. The worthlessness I carried into every relationship was formed by experiences where a male had power over a female, including the power my brother had over my mother that kept her from protecting us.
My posture, expectation, and response were dictated by the abuse we (my sister and I) suffered as children. In our family, boys were rewarded for bad behavior. They were protected and favored. I learned to please men as a defense mechanism and due to generational rearing with old-fashioned ideas.
Where I failed my children was showing them what a mutually respectful partnership looks like. I was not strong enough to be a worthy opponent when it called for being one.
As they have grown, we’ve talked about why I was unable to demonstrate agency and cowered under the demands of their father. By inviting them into my vulnerability, they better understand the dynamic they saw in the unequal partnership between their parents so that it doesn’t remain a one-sided story that unfairly represented their dad.
The divorce came after a 24-year marriage to their father.
I remarried too quickly, and we had a rocky start.
My husband’s wife died of cancer three years prior, and I hadn’t processed my failed marriage. Healing has taken place for both of us. We emerged in a committed and loving relationship that encourages one another in our self-discoveries. Our coffee mornings often last several hours while we engage in so many topics, including shame, abandonment, and healing.
None of us come out unscathed in life. Some go through unthinkable traumas and others feel the sting like a bee when it burns hotly and may cause a raised skin patch showing the injury.
It is not these situations that define us, but rather how we process and incorporate them in our narrative journey to find healing and shame amelioration. And, if we choose to have children, it is the intentionality we bring to being good parents to raise them with a sense of worthiness and agency.
I broke the cycle.
Doing for my children what was severely lacking in my family, especially accountability by the boys, helped in my healing journey. I built a trusting partnership with my children where we make mistakes, talk it through, and love unconditionally.
I look back at my childhood and rarely think about the abuse, not out of shame but from having processed it. I lived with the shame until I was well into my fifties, when I was able to talk about what happened and not feel judged.
As an adult, I made choices that deviated further and further from the way I was raised. My former husband and I lived abroad for eleven years; two of my children were born abroad. I embraced broader cultural and political interests. Most noticeable was I raised my children to be accountable for their actions.
Occasionally, I think of the pain the women on my maternal side carried and still carry. Abuse was brushed under the rug. Silencing the pain, at least, was the intent of not talking about it.
I learned how important it is to share our story as part of the healing journey.
Several years back, I talked with my sister and brother about the abuse. I had hoped it would help my sister. I can’t tell that it has.
I held contempt for my brother for years. Now, I feel nothing. I recognize my mother’s love for him, but I don’t share it or feel angry about it. I still prefer not to be in a room with him, but I have no fear of him.
We are not all made of the same “stuff” and, for whatever reason, I’ve been given a good dose of resilience that others in my family haven’t inhabited as easily. Perhaps that and a willingness to dive into the icky parts, have helped me bring these stories out of the shadows to vanquish the shame.
In October 2020, I traveled to Missouri from New Jersey to be with my mom during another heart procedure. Since 2016, she has gone through multiple procedures related to her failing organs (heart, lungs, and kidneys).
While lying on my bed, I had a lengthy and honest conversation with my mom about the abuse and the impact on my sister and me, especially feeling abandoned by her.
At seventy-nine and with my mom's ongoing major organ failures for several years, perhaps I felt it was now or never. Living on the East Coast near New York, Covid changed the landscape dramatically. Life was more fragile.
To truly connect with my mom during a time of isolation, distancing, and disease made the experience more impactful. It was a healing conversation for both of us.
I could see the shame Mom carried for so many years begin to release, and I felt closer to her. She shared with me actions she had taken in hopes of keeping him away from us. She recognized it was not enough.
Since then, our relationship has been more genuine. We talk regularly. I plan trips to travel with my parents and visit them frequently.
At sixty-one, I know I gave my children the best of me.
I am able to embrace without false humility what a consistently good mother I have been. Seeing how they approach life with intentionality reflects how they were raised with strong values and understand our accountability for our actions.
While they are very different from one another, the common thread is their unfailing sense of worth to themselves and others. Seeing my children demonstrate independent thinking and agency in their relationships is redemptive.
Thank you Debbie Walker, Margie Pearl, and Cindy Heath for your editing expertise and encouragement to share my story. It is never easy to “go public” and share events that have caused so much shame. I hope it helps others with their healing journey, especially for those who are parents who struggle with a feeling of worthlessness. Thank you for reading.