A Mother-Daughter Story

Part II

“I love your kid, but your parenting style scares the hell out of me.” A good friend said to me, when my girl was about nine years old. Variations of that statement have been said over the years, by many people. No one had any idea, how seriously I took parenthood. It has always been my top priority. That doesn’t mean I didn’t fail at times. It also doesn’t mean, that I didn’t put my own interests ahead of my daughter’s at times.

I prayed a lot during those years and I read constantly. A parenting book was always in my hands. I prayed for her future teachers all the way through college. I even prayed for her future husband. I asked God for healthy relationships with other adults and then took steps to foster that, in her life. It was difficult at times, because I wanted her to like me best. Sometimes she preferred her dad or babysitter or a teacher. My first instinct was to be jealous, but I learned to embrace those relationships. It takes a village.

I’m the mom who, while pregnant, interviewed five pediatricians. I interviewed childcare providers for months and never found one I felt comfortable with. My mother and father-in-law agreed to keep her for a couple of months, until we found someone. After six weeks, I went back to work, fully confident in my child’s care. Her grandparents couldn’t get enough of her. I’d go to their home on breaks and her Papa didn’t want to hand her over, for me to feed her. When I picked her up at night, she smelled like his cologne. They were one happy baby and one happy man. Sweetest thing ever.

Three weeks later, Papa died on an operating table. His heart couldn’t take another surgery. The entire family was stunned, traumatized. Kylie was four months old.

The next few months,  my good friend Robin kept Kylie. Robin lived close to my salon. I went there several times a day to breastfeed. Robin’s own daughter, Rylee is two months older than mine. It was a perfect fit, until Robin had to return to work. I’m still grateful to her for stepping up, in our time of crisis and for the time she spent with Kylie. We bonded with each other and our baby girls. Losing my father-in-law changed us all and made me more appreciative of the few people in my life, I could trust.

As a hairdresser, I have access to all kinds of people. A few of my clients worked for DHS childcare licensing division. They visited homes and facilities and knew who could be trusted and who could not. I trusted their opinion. When an opening came available at Ms. Di’s home childcare, I was advised to take my kid there, pay whatever I had to and be confident that she will be taken care of. Ms. Di was Kylie’s home daycare provider for a couple of years before kindergarten.

She wasn’t only a care provider for Kylie, she was a friend and had Kylie’s best interests at heart. They built trust with each other and to this day, I credit Ms. Di for much of Kylie’s life learning. I asked another client, a kindergarten teacher, what I needed to teach my daughter before she started school.

“Please teach her how to tie her shoes and wipe her butt.” She replied earnestly.

Ms.Di helped her learn that and more. Under her care, children learned to swim, tie shoes, table manners, bathroom etiquette, kindness and generosity. She was a good friend to Kylie and sought new ways to teach the kids and learn from them. During my divorce from Kylie’s dad, Ms. Di was a godsend. By then, nap time was a joke to Kylie but she respected the rules and lay down with the others. She never took naps but would look at books instead. Ms. Di began spending one on one time with Kylie at nap time, reading books to her about divorce and helping Kylie deal with the emotions she felt. She was mad at me and sad for her dad, the emotions were strong and sometimes ugly. She was four years old.

Part of that time, Ms. Di and I were not friendly. She resented what I had done to my family and she didn’t mind telling me about it. During nap time Kylie told Ms. Di things that bothered her, about her dad and I divorcing. She didn’t like that we didn’t live in the same house anymore. Her dad moved out, I stayed in our home. We took turns taking her to daycare and picking her up. In the beginning it was tough keeping up with the schedule. I can only imagine Kylie’s confusion.

She didn’t like that her daddy was sad all the time or that Mom had a boyfriend. At nap time she told Ms. Di things that daddy said about mommy. He was very sad that mommy’s boyfriend had stolen her away. She also told Ms. Di things about me and my boyfriend. I never told her not to tell. Having a friend and confident who is trustworthy and has your best interests at heart is invaluable. I also never told her not to tell her dad things. Although I was embarrassed about my affair, I didn’t want to alienate my daughter. I wanted her to trust me and like me again at some point.

The first year was particularly tough. I had cheated on my husband and was in a relationship with my lover. As hard as we tried to keep Kylie protected, the consequences of our actions brought hurt and tribulation on all of us; none so much, as my little girl. She asked a million questions and invented, at least that many scenarios, in her mind, to reunite her dad and me.

“I have a good idea.” My four-year-old said, from the back seat of my car.

“What’s that sugar?” I asked. She was full of good ideas, I braced myself.

“You call Daddy and tell him you love him.” She said in earnest.

“That wouldn’t be nice honey, that would make him sad.” I was imagining how that would go. When we first separated, he had asked me not to allow her to wear my perfume. The memory was too painful for him. I tried to lessen his grief any way I could. After all, he wasn’t the one who fell in love with someone else and asked for a divorce.

“No, mommy, he still loves you. You can call him and tell him you love him.” She encouraged.

“It would be mean, because it isn’t true.” I told her. Very sad she was finding out, I didn’t have those feelings for her dad anymore.

“You don’t love Daddy?” She asked. Her voice was sad.

“Not like before Honey.” I wasn’t prepared for the long explanation I thought must follow.

“Well, we can trick him.” She said with glee.

“What? Trick him?” I was confused for a minute but quickly realized, her plan wasn’t for her dad’s comfort, but her own. She went on to explain how things would be so much better if Daddy was back home and my boyfriend was dead.

All of these feelings and many more, were told to Ms. Di during nap time. She bought children’s books and coloring books about divorce and shared them with Kylie, while the other children were sleeping. It was a secret they shared for a while, before either of them shared their secret with me. I found out when Kylie told me she didn’t take naps anymore. She said, she was too big for naps, so she and Ms. Di read books and talked about “The Vorce.”

At first, I was annoyed and embarrassed. I didn’t want people knowing the details of my life. Then I was reminded that this was another consequence and it wasn’t about me. It was about my child and her ability to cope with the life I had handed her. I learned to appreciate Kylie’s ability to find trustworthy adults to help her through tough times. Around the same time, one of the other children in her daycare, lost his father to cancer. Ms. Di had her hands full of tragedy, in the lives of these little ones she cared for.

I swallowed my pride and began the hard work of making an ally of Ms. Di. She made it clear that she took Kylie’s side in the situation. Kylie’s dad told his side of the story. She believed some of it. She didn’t believe me. I had straight face lied to her, about my affair. I sought approval from her therefore, I lied.

It was difficult hearing some of the things she had to say. It was hurtful, she said, that she found out through other people, that I had an affair with my pastor. She was embarrassed for me.

You should have seen her reaction to my new boobs. Geezus, I was one hundred and six pounds, six of it was boobs. Fortunately, I learned from my mistakes. I told her ahead of time. She seemed kind of happy for me and yet made it clear, I didn’t need new boobs. My first night back to picking up Kylie, was crowded, mostly with dads retrieving their kids.

I was at the end of the line, like always. All parents signed their kids in and out, got backpacks and headed out. The line wasn’t long when Kylie spotted me. I waved and she got excited.

Running to find Ms. Di, she yelled, “Ms. Di, did you see my mom’s new boobies.”

In an instant, all heads flew my direction. Even the kids were looking. I was embarrassed. When I made my way inside to grab my child’s stuff, everyone was gone. Just me, Ms. Di, and my sweet honest four-year-old.

That night, Ms. Di reminded me to get there by eight o’clock in the morning and six o’clock at night. I tend to run late on both ends of the day. There was also something about being responsible and spending more alone time with my daughter. Concerns about several things were voiced and I left mad.

Kylie wanted McDonald’s, so I whipped into the drive through. I was in a hurry and still mad. The car in front of us was a black Cadillac, maybe five years old. I know, because I sat there for an unreasonable amount of time. Finally, I’d had enough. I whipped around that pretty black Cadillac, at the first window, and pulled up to the second window. The cashiers were confused, the man in the black car was annoyed.

The five minutes before went like this.

“Chicken, french fries and ketchup. Mom, I want chicken, french fries and ketchup.” Kylie kept repeating. The car in front of me was taking forever and there was no one in front of him.

“What the hell is wrong with this guy.” I’m saying to myself over and over. Then I said it out loud.

“What’s wrong Mommy.” My darling said, from the backseat.

“This guy is just sitting here. He’s holding up the line.” I told her. She knew I was mad.

“Just be patient.” She reminded me. Excellent advice not taken.

“I’m going around him.” I said.

“That’s cutting in line. You can’t do that.” She told me.

Again not taking her advice, I put my car in reverse and she started telling me no, don’t do that. She was scared and upset that I was going to cut this car in line. I told her to be quiet. When the cashier came to the second window, I tried to calmly explain the situation. The employs were confused and didn’t speak English fluently enough to understand my explanation.

I heard the man in the black car say, “Well, I guess she was in a hurry.”

“Mommy, what are you going to do?” She saw me take off my seat belt and open my door. I looked at her scared face.

“I’ll be right back. It’s okay.” I told her and got out of my car.

It was a short walk  to the car and the first window. When I got to the car, I saw the driver clearly for the first time. He looked afraid too. His expression said, he wasn’t sure I didn’t have a gun.

“I’m truly sorry for how I acted. I’m embarrassed and ashamed of myself. I won’t waste your time with my lame excuse. Now, I’m going back to say the same thing to my four-year-old.” I walked away humbled.

Back in my car with chicken, french fries and ketchup, I apologized to my daughter. I told her what I said to the man in the black car. I told her I apologized to the cashiers too.

“They looked scared.” She told me, she was scared too. I was embarrassed and somewhat amazed. My four-year-old, two Hispanic cashiers and an older black gentleman, all thought me capable of physical harm.

“They did look scared.” I said. Sad that I made people afraid and glad that I apologized when I had the chance.

That year was tough. We both grew from the experience and have healed from it. Being vulnerable with our children, I believe, will help them be vulnerable with us and others. It takes a lot, to sincerely apologize to your kid. I have had to do it many times, in the last 18 years. I won’t go into all my mom fails, just know that I have messed up plenty. We keep holding each other accountable by being honest and vulnerable. I pray we always, have soft hearts toward each other.

 

A Mother-Daughter Story is a project I’ve been working on my whole life. Only it just came into focus how to tell this story. This week has been interesting, weird even. I can’t shake the feeling that something or somethings bigger than me were at work. Shaking the feeling wasn’t my optimum goal, understanding and learning from it is. I won’t share all the details now, primarily because I don’t know all the details yet, and because I really want to get to the point with which I started.

I’ve been reading Brene’ Brown‘s Daring Greatly. Listening to it actually. A business associate recommended it a while back, but I was resistant. Mainly, I resisted the recommendation because my associate is a Christian and my limited experience with him gave me an impression he was the kind of guy who reads and recommends Joel Osteen books and Craig Groeschel videos. While those guys and other’s like them are helpful for many people, they are not helpful for me.

I’ve been behind that curtain, I’ve seen the Great and Powerful Oz at work and play. For more than twenty years I was in Christian ministry. Teacher, preacher, worship leader, staff leader were some of my roles. During those years I worked full-time as a hairdresser, volunteering my time as a minister. It never occurred to me to get paid, mostly it was my pleasure and reward. I don’t know how many churches I help start or build but I believed in every one of them. I have very few regrets about that juncture in my life but my faith took a major blow.  Saying all that to help explain why I can’t abide mainstream religion and to give you a glimpse into what makes me tick.

Brene’ Brown is no Joel Osteen or Craig Groeschel. She isn’t trying to be. I missed judged my new colleague or at least his taste in books. “Daring Greatly” has had an impact on me. Particularly in the areas of shame and vulnerability. That’s her gig. She is a research professor at the University of Houston. Her writing comes across with authenticity, it sounds like she believes what she’s talking about and wants to share it, in a helpful way, with others. I believe Osteen and Groeschel believe their messages too, that is why I don’t condemn them or their followers. In the past I have, but now I won’t. Maybe in another section, but not now.

What “Daring Greatly” has taught me is that being vulnerable can be sticky or stretchy (my words) but it’s a must for healthy relationships. It reminded me of my relationship with my daughter and my relationships with my mother and step-mother and how different those relationships are and always have been. That’s my Mother-Daughter Story.

 

Part I

Being a parent is my most best favorite thing. It’s the most gratifying and most frustrating job in the world. When I was a kid I was certain I could do a better job at parenting than my mother was doing. I’m the oldest of her three girls. She raised us as an on and off again single mom, marrying and divorcing several times in the first fourteen years of my life. The youngest of three children, Mom was only seventeen when I was born. I was sure I would yell and hit less and take better care of my sisters than she did. There were times when I did take care of them better than she did. I resented her for it and my second sister resented me for leaving when I did.

At fourteen I moved away from my mom, two sisters, Mema, aunts and uncles, family and friends. I moved away from a school where I thrived and was accepted. Friends and neighbors were shocked. My family members were devastated. Boyfriends were confused. The perception was that I was happy and working hard toward a successful future. The reality was that I stayed away from home as much as possible to avoid strife. Keeping myself busy is a natural coping style for me. Avoiding home life and staying busy kept me exhausted but safe most of the time. The shocked neighbors and devastated family wouldn’t know for many years that I was being sexually molested by a family friend.

He was one in a long line of family friends who molested me. The shame I felt, kept me from telling anyone. That and the frequency in which it had happened most my life. Earnie was an ugly man in his thirties.  He had a tumor on his cheek and greased back hair. He was tall and strong and he smelled nice. He was the last, not the worst offender. On the outside the smart funny tennis player, newspaper editor, and singer seemed to have it all but, all the while, my home situation was detestable. There had always been a way out and I finally got up enough courage or had taken enough abuse and I took it. The month after my fourteenth birthday I left my mother crying in our gravel driveway as my dad drove us away. 

My relief and hope alleviated some of guilt I felt for abandoning my sisters. That was the worst of it. They were left defenseless but at fourteen, the weight was too heavy for me. I didn’t feel sorry for my mom. I was too angry and resentful to have compassion for her at all. Over the next several years I came to judge her, condemn her even. I blamed her for all the terrible things that happened to me. I hated her for all the terrible things she did to me. I avoided contact with her because it was too painful. Some relationships with friends and family suffered, some died away altogether. 

My new life was better in that no one was hitting me or molesting me but it was not better in many ways. Still the oldest girl, my responsibilities were overwhelming. My dad struggled with depression throughout those years. He was difficult to live with. Mostly he worked and slept but when he was awake he could be a terror to my younger siblings and my stepmom. She worked as much as possible to help support me and the seven other children they had taken in.  During those years I kept busy with work and ministry, doing my best to bless others. My heart was hardened toward my real mom and indirectly toward that side of my family too.

Living in a three bedroom, one bathroom home with nine other people seems impossible now. We did that for five years. Before that year, my dad and stepmom took my sisters and me on holidays and summer vacation but we lived too far away for regular visitation. It was always a treat to stay with them. I was five when Daddy married Moma Lady. She had two older boys who teased us and treated the three of us like little sisters. Moma Lady was pretty and she dressed us like dolls with fancy hair. We had girl cousins our own age and grandparents who accepted us into their family. I secretly prayed, even begged God, to live with them full-time.

When reality set in I would be taking care of seven other kids and cooking regularly for at least ten, sometimes twenty people. Daddy and Moma Lady worked long hours just trying to feed us, I felt fortunate to even have a place to lay my head. Rarely did I complain about my plight because I felt guilty for putting more on their shoulders. I complied, but it didn’t take long for me to get busy in school, church and social groups and avoid home life yet again. My new rules were stricter in some ways, but rules have loop holes. If I was involved in something God related or school related and had taken care of my chores I was allowed to leave the house. Dates were limited to two week nights per week and my curfew was ten pm. The structure was comforting and I kept busy with school and church life. I almost felt like a normal teenager.

When my daughter was that age, I was forced to reflect on my upbringing. When I say forced, I mean it wasn’t a self-reflective, mindfulness exercise. I wasn’t currently in therapy working through my childhood issues. I, gratefully, had already done that. Years before, I had sought professional help for the trauma I endured in childhood. Throughout my ministry years I worked with men, women, girls and boys with similar pasts. I believe we begin to come full circle when we’re able to help another person deal with similar issues. For example, helping sexual or physical abuse victims get past a level of pain or grief helps me get past another level, closing the gap between hurt and healing. 

One particular area of hurt and healing is infertility. My daughter’s dad and I were infertile for several years. After all the embarrassing and painful tests were done we knew I had endometriosis. Three surgeries, a near sexual harassment suit, two doctors and lots of meds later, I conceived. The emotional trauma I experienced during those years was all-consuming. But for the generosity of my mother and father-in-law, our medical debt would have drowned us. After six and a half years of marriage, Kylie’s dad and I welcomed her into this crazy world. That’s when my life changed forever.

She was and is my miracle baby. I believe we were on every prayer list in Oklahoma City. She was a sign of hope. During her early childhood I felt lead or compelled to pray for couples who wanted to get pregnant. I was leading worship at a small non-denominational church when people started coming to me for prayer regarding infertility. I’m not sure if I had any sort of special mojo or magic or gifting but I was honored to pray for them. Some conceived had babies, others didn’t and we still believed in the practice of laying our hands on women’s tummies and praying for another miracle.

It was during that time when I began to wonder if God had sent me a demon. You may laugh or cringe at my phrasing but you weren’t there. This kid was difficult. Albeit beautiful, smart, funny, crafty, clever, manipulative and wonderful. Friends and family can attest that my miracle child was a brat. Dang it!

“If that was my child I would beat her.” Said one friend.

“If that was my kid I would have to drink every night.” Said another.

“You should take parenting classes.” A stranger once said.

“It’s child proof, not Kylie proof.” Her babysitter told me.

These types of comments came often and I fretted over them. I took parenting classes. I went to mom counseling and requested prayer. I read parenting books about strong-willed children. I prayed and asked for wisdom. Helping my girl be a good person was forefront on my mind. When I figured out she was advanced in nearly every are of development, I was on a better track. I began reading ahead in my parenting books and allowing myself some slack when she acted out. She was not a bad girl, I told myself. I need to learn how to be a better mom.

Having little to draw from I set out on a journey to find what would work for us long-term. First I banned any negative or shameful comments about Kylie, in her presence. Following her cues, I tried to trust people she trusted. At two years old, she was capable of communicating  who she wanted to spend time with. Having experienced my first instance of sexual abuse at the age of two, it was extremely difficult to trust most people. On my rational days I knew most people don’t want to hurt my child. On  bad days I wanted to protect her from people she loved and trusted and trustworthy people who loved her. To be a healthy mom and individual I knew I had to learn how to  parent her without allowing my own childhood to intervene. Through prayer, therapy and life experience, I’ve come a long way. 

One of my favorite quotes about parenting comes from an unlikely source. An all time favorite series of mine is Showtime’s House of Lies.  Don Cheadle’s character Marty Kaan is a flawed father, to say the least and I don’t suggest following his example. His son Roscoe’s mother, is also a disaster but that is beside the point.

Responding to a compliment directed at what a great kid Roscoe is, Marty says, “Any good thing I did in parenting him, he showed me how to do it.”

I humbly agree with Marty. My parenting style has always annoyed, bothered and scared others. From pregnancy on I made choices that didn’t make sense to family members and friends. They didn’t always make sense to me either but what’s a mom to do when your kid out smarts you and other adults at such an early age. I gleaned snippets here and there from clients in my hair salon and magazine articles. I still do.

Thus far, every major juncture in my life before motherhood, I have relived when my daughter was that age. Her twos and threes were tough for me. Thirteen and fourteen were extremely tough for us all, especially her. We made it through by believing in each other and showing each other how to do it.

Although this is a mother-daughter story, I would be remiss if I didn’t tell you that Kylie and I were greatly supported by two men. Her father and her step father. I wasn’t a single mother until she was almost grown. Kylie also has cultivated healthy relationships with other positive male role models, especially teachers and coaches. Her ability to seek out and maintain healthy relationships with other adults is a perfect example of what an amazing woman she is, as you will see.

Ryan Adams is Kylie’s all time favorite heart-throb/musical interest. She wished a painful vagina worm infested death on Mandy Moore upon their engagement in 2007. Kylie was twelve. In “The Sun Also Sets” Ryan Adam sings, “There it is, we’re the only ones pushed from the nest. The sun rises but the sun also sets.” In the depths of teenage angst Kylie reminded us daily that “The Sun Also Sets.”

“Why are you so negative all the time?” I asked. My new teenager glared at me with contempt. She wouldn’t communicate with me and she began acting out in ways that confused me and tormented her step dad. She stayed grounded for the better part of two school years. She seemed to use grades and behavior as ammunition against us.

“You changed the rules, not me. Let me know when you want to talk.” I huffed and exited her room. I was utterly confused how our open communication had suddenly gone cold. Had I done something to push her away? Had she done something shameful that she couldn’t share with me? I went to my room and cried.

It was a typical Sunday morning when the truth came out. Ever since we quit church, a year or so before, our Sunday morning ritual was the same. Greg let me sleep until I awoke and we made biscuits and sausage gravy for breakfast instead of attending church. Our excommunication from the Nazarene church had been dramatic for me and traumatic for him. Kylie rolled with the punches like she always had. This departure was one of many in her short life and I failed to recognize the impact it had on her.

I was busy emptying the dishwasher when Greg said, “Stop doing that.”

First of all, I don’t like being told what to do. I looked at him with an expression meant to communicate my irritation, but I stopped short when I saw the look on his face. He was all at once hurt, sad, protective, scared and angry. I knew he was going to ask for a divorce, admit an extramarital affair or indiscretion.

“Should I tell you now or later?” He asked. He was trying to give me a choice about what time of day I preferred to be utterly devastated. Leaving the dishwasher unattended, I gave him my full attention.

“You might as well tell me now. What’s the use in waiting?” I asked, prepared for the worst. I thought. I armored myself and waited.

Greg swallowed hard and said, “It’s about Kylie.” I was not prepared for the worst after all. Hearing that Greg was having an affair and wanted a divorce was not the worst case scenario. Upon hearing her name, my entire essence shifted.

“She was molested.” He told me.

It took a few seconds for it to sink in. My daughter had been molested. My baby was hurt. She needed help now. Moma bear took over, I went primal. Standing against the wet kitchen sink, I was propelled into another realm of existence. Like when she was newborn I needed to be near her, to examine her. I needed to see all her toes and fingers. Furthermore she needed me.

“Who? When? How long have you known?” Greg gave me the details that Kylie had shared with him three nights earlier.

Six months earlier while she was babysitting, Kylie had been sexually assaulted by Briana the mother of the three children and Briana’s brother Bryan. They, along with Briana’s husband Jon, came home early that night. Later Kylie told me details as she felt comfortable.

“She didn’t want you to know.” He said. He had told her that I had to know but he would wait until Sunday so she wouldn’t be home. That was also my day off and Greg knew I would need time to recover.

“Why didn’t she want me to know?” I asked, still in shock.

“She knows it’s your worst fear.”

Slowly I shrunk to the floor and folded myself into a fetal position. My mind was flooded with images from my past. I was two years old in a neighbor’s garage. David slapped me hard against my face and demanded, “Now be a good girl or I’ll tell your moma.” He said.

With my eyes tightly closed I saw my first offender punishing me for resisting his advances. It wasn’t the first time I had crawled under the partially opened garage door to unlock the side entrance for David to sneak in. He couldn’t fit under and he taught me how to let him in. Wanting to be a good girl I did as he said. Having come to terms with my heinous past I was not in a protected state of dissociation. I was there with David’s penis in my face, he was threatening me and hitting me. I was in full-blown panic mode when something powerful shook me back to the present.

“This is not about you.” I said aloud.

“This is not about you. You are safe. This is about your child.” It happened more quickly than I’m able to tell but I was transferred out of victim mode and into mom mode in an instant. 

“Where is she?” I needed to hear her voice. Rarely on Sunday morning was Kylie away from home but that particular morning she was strategically, with her dad. Greg told me she had chosen to stay away so he could tell me what happened without her seeing my reaction. She had kept it from us for six months, not wanting to “make me sad.” Knowing some of my past experiences made her want to protect me. It was only when a close friend of hers threatened to tell us Kylie was cutting herself and talking about suicide, did she confide in Greg.

It was during that long year that my own mother and I reconnected. All the blame I had placed on her in years past, was heaped like hot coals, back on me. If only I hadn’t let Kylie go babysit that night. If only I hadn’t let her help Sherry with the kids. It was my fault for not protecting her. What kind of mother lets this happen? I felt for the first time the utter sadness my mom must have felt. Only her pain was compounded because she lost her daughter. It had been twenty-five years since I left her and she never stopped hoping. My mom was able to help me through the most devastating motherhood experience because she had been there. That’s when I began learning the process of forgiveness.