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Thirteen years ago, I had my heart ripped from my chest. It was a hurt that would never go away. A pain that would leave a scar so deep that it would affect me for the rest of my life. That was the day my son, Anthony, chose to live with his father. It brings tears to my eyes...still. He was twelve, the age when a child could be brought into court and asked to choose between his parents. Our battle never went to court - I never wanted Anthony to go through that. Our relationship was always good, but his father had more to offer at the time, and to a twelve year old boy, that meant a better life. I let him go. Those four little words still haunt me. I let him go. I didn't want him to resent me if I fought for him to stay. I. Let. Him. Go.
Over the years, Anthony has gained so much respect for my husband and I and the life we lead. Anthony and I are in two different states now, but he continues to call us for big moments in his life, and even though we are close, my heart still aches for him. I feel like I was given a puzzle on the day he was born, and I was only permitted enough time to finish half of it before it was taken away from me. Even though I did a great job with the first half, someone else was allowed to complete that puzzle and get the satisfaction of the final product.
Over the years, I've felt so guilty for allowing him to go...not fighting for him to stay...not finishing that puzzle. Even after all of these years, I still can't talk about it without crying.
Well, this past weekend, Anthony got married. He and his wife, Allison, chose a destination wedding in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. We were able to attend, although no one else on Anthony's side could...including his father. I felt blessed that I could witness their celebration (I don't think a team of horses could have held me back). Throughout the wedding weekend, I observed Allison, her children, her mother and sister, and and the bride and groom's closest friends. I loved them all. I felt connected to a part of Anthony's life that I never felt before. It was in those moments that I realized something that never before crossed my mind. If Anthony hadn't gone to live with his father, his path would have been different. He would not have these wonderful people in his life today, and Allison and her children would not be a part of our family now.
April 4, 2014, was the day I recognized that I had been holding that final puzzle piece in my heart the whole time, and as I witnessed my son's marriage, I handed that last piece over to Allison. And, as I let the tears flow while they exchanged vows, I understood my job was done and I. Let. Him. Go.
I've been with the same man for 20 years, and I have two sons who, at the moment, are both 25 years old. "Are they twins?" you might ask. "Nope." I see that look of confusion in your eyes just as I have many times before.
Whenever I would meet someone new, one of the primary questions would always surface, "Do you have children?" Each time I would respond, without hesitation, "Yes, I have two." Of course, the next innocent question would be, "How old are they?" and I would reply with their age and the comment, "They are 8 months apart." There's that look of confusion again. I would like to think that the furrowed brow is because they think I look way to young to have children that age, but I know that they are secretly trying to replay the words in their head to ensure they heard me correctly. I repeat... "Yes, eight months apart. You see, Anthony is from my first marriage and Dustin is from Darren's first marriage. I did not give birth to both. They are... Eight. Months. Apart."
I can count on one hand the times I used the word "stepson". Although it would make my response to the children question much more clear, I don't believe in it. At least, not in this case. Dustin has been a part of my life since he was five and Anthony was six. Yes...eight months apart. He was a wild boy, full of energy and enthusiasm, never skipping a beat, missing a conversation...or a meal. He and Anthony were very different kids. Anthony was quiet, creative, cuddly, and lived off of bean burritos (He kinda still does).
Life was interesting. Motherhood was (and is still) interesting. I did the best I knew how to raise two boys. Was it a challenge? Yes. Was there spanking? Yes. Was there love? Yes. Was it easy? No. Was there a day that went by that I wanted to be someone else? Never. I chose motherhood and the adventures it threw my way. Some of it I did alone as a single parent, and most of it was shared when I met Darren. There were days I felt like everything I did was wrong. I had people reminding me of that, destroying my confidence, but I know now that the sacrifices I made and the love that I shared made everything okay.
Both of my sons have families of their own,and I am so proud of the men that stand before me. I see now that even though there were self-doubts that I was "good at motherhood", something rubbed off over the years. Anthony and Dustin are both loving, caring humans, have chosen wonderful partners to spend their lives with, and are fantastic fathers. I count my blessings each day that Darren and I have raised two perfect sons.
"Motherhood is a choice you make everyday to put someone else's happiness and well-being ahead of your own, to teach the hard lessons, to do the right thing,even when you're not sure what the right thing is...and to forgive yourself over and over again for doing everything wrong." ~Donna Ball
Several years ago, I found my passion.Not that it was any bit a surprise to me - I always knew. From that single moment 40 years ago when I had center stage with a group of 8-years olds in Girl Scouts, until the day I stood in front of a group of 15 teaching them how to open a new account, I knew I wanted to teach.
My husband, who despises public speaking and gets physically ill when he is made to give a presentation, doesn't understand what goes on inside of me when I have the opportunity to share my knowledge with others in a classroom setting. Maybe you don't understand either, so let me see if I can shed some light for you.I prepare. I research material so that I'm not caught off guard giving any incorrect information. I prepare. I layout how my class will flow and write down exactly what I will say even if I don't say it word for word. I prepare. I insert activities to make sure everyone will be engaged. I prepare. I talk to myself, to the mirror, to an empty office, to any open space that will listen until I get the flow just right. And then, when it's time, I deliver. It's hard to explain the transformation that takes place in me when I'm standing in front of a group, their eyes all on me, grasping my every word. Introvert by nature, I covert into someone who wants the attention...who demands it. I make people feel comfortable participating, I engage them, I teach them. I walk away with such a "high" knowing that I made a difference. I made little light bulbs come on in their minds based on my words, my examples, and my style.
I get excited each time I'm asked to facilitate a class, and a week ago such a thing happened. Okay, well it would only be a 1-hour training session, but I would still be able to impart my knowledge on this group of people. The one thing that made me nervous is that my boss offered to co-facilitate. I can tell you right now, that she is a totally different person than I am. She is spontaneous, and sometimes talks in circles. I knew I had a challenge in front of me. Getting her to even sit down and talk about how the session would flow would be a challenge. So, I did my part. I prepared. I had a beautiful handout ready to go - I had spent a few days putting it together in order to get it just right - seeking her approval. Yesterday was judgement day. As we sat down, I wore a proud smile, knowing she would take one look and tell me that she never knew I had such a wonderful talent for this. Instead, she began writing all over it, tearing it apart, adding things here, crossing things out there, telling me that I shouldn't give them this handout that I worked so very hard on, but rather a copy of my PowerPoint with those silly lines off to the side for notes. WHAT? REALLY? I was deflated, but I took it in stride and decided that I could give in...just this once.
After our discussion, I started telling her of an idea I had for a required training class on campus. She just looked at me with a blank stare. I wasn't exactly sure how to read that body language, so I asked her straight up what she thought. Do you know what she said? "It won't work." WHAT? REALLY? If I had any air left in my balloon, it was quickly let out by the sharp stab of her three little words. I fought back the tears, told her I was disappointed, and our meeting was over. Just like that. In that hour, my self-esteem was crushed like crumbs for a pie crust.
She may have stomped on my fire, attempting to put it out, but little did she know that she left some ashes smoldering, and with time, I will rise from those ashes, hotter and stronger than ever. That passion will always burn in my heart. She will not kill my dream. I will not be deflated. I will endure and come out fighting to hold onto my heart!
