Being a Mother With a Crazy Mother

I became a mother in the early spring of 2015, one month before my twentieth birthday. It wasn’t a planned pregnancy, but I can say this: that little girl saved my life.

To give a little background before my story, this is true, and will probably upset quite a few people. And yes, my mother is that bad.

In the years preceding my pregnancy, I had made some unruly choices in not only men, but some of the people I kept in my circle of “friends.” One particularly was my daughter's father. Granted, he was a good guy, but didn’t know how to hold onto a dollar. I left him before I found out about the pregnancy and never told him. I thought I was doing the right thing at the time and, boy, was I wrong. Wrong about wanting to do the whole thing by myself, that is. I went through the whole forty-two weeks alone with my family. I went to college and worked some—where I could find work for a pregnant woman.

When it came time for her to be born, I was still single. It didn’t bother me any, other than the fact that I was living at home with Mom and Dad. My mom was pissed off as usual, because I was interfering with her personal life. Since we had moved to the area she didn't have one, but being the baby of the family by almost ten years (unexpected and unwanted on my mother’s end, and never letting me forget it) that’s usually what happens. I got blamed for everything that went wrong or missing or broken or whatever she could find to blame me for.

Jump forward three months; I’m back at work—making good money, and buying everything that my daughter needed. I was also saving up money to put towards an apartment. One day, Mom comes up to me in her usual blaming mood, and says, "If you don’t leave your job and go back to school, I’m gonna make you leave my house." Okay, whatever. I had enough money saved up for a semester of school. I kept working while I was in school and my mom still wasn’t happy because I wasn’t being a good mother by spending my time on other things than my daughter. I came to find out that I was put in daycare at six-weeks-old.

It’s now two years later and I’ve finished school with a simple Associate's in science, and a good paying job. My daughter loves her daycare. I decided it was time to upgrade my ragged old two door truck for something bigger that she could grow into, and something that wouldn’t be such a safety hazard. I got the new truck and, of course, being the black sheep in my family, Mom was pissed off at yet another one of my choices—because it wasn’t her choice. Two months later, I’m in the kitchen making breakfast for everyone and my mom was supposed to help me watch my daughter so she wouldn’t get into trouble. But as every day before, she had her nose stuck to her phone doing who-knows-what, and my daughter left the house. At two-years-old there’s a lot that could happen outside. Two things in particular were the two major highways within walking distance of the house. I hear the door close and I go running outside to catch my daughter before she got too far. My mom blows up on me because I’m letting her do such things as well as not watching what I’m doing in the kitchen. At this point I’ve had enough. So I tell her that if she doesn’t like it, then that’s fine, because I’ve already been looking for places to move into for me and Riley.

Not wanting to lose her little maid she tells me, “Well, if that’s how it’s going to be, then you can pack your things and get off my property before I have the police come and remove you.”

Okay, well now it’s been three months and let me tell you, it’s a lot harder than I thought. I work every day for just barely enough money to pay my bills, I come home and cook and clean for a tired screaming two-year-old. I work two jobs and both of them aren't enough to make ends meet. Some months are harder than others. We make it though. We’re both happier now than when we where living with my parents. My mom hasn’t spoken a word to me since we left her house that day. My dad still tells me that she gripes and complains about me not letting her see us, and how horrible I am for putting my daughter through this torment. My daughter has yet to ask about my mother since we left. She hasn’t had a single nightmare since we moved out. My daughter even talks more, and is even more likely to climb up on the couch with me after a long day and cuddle with me and tell me she had a great day and loves me so much. She never did that when we lived with my mom.

I’m sitting here writing this while I watch my daughter sleep and smile in her dreams. I used to worry about my mom's usual nightly bath and hair drying routine (typically right after bedtime), waking my daughter up and causing me to have to sit there and rock her for two hours because she can’t fall back asleep. Now I only have to worry about the neighborhood hound-dog being too loud while he’s chasing the raccoon through the woods, but he never makes it to our side of the loop.

My mom did, however, stay in contact with my dad while he was visiting us for Christmas. We had lots of fun putting together her mini trampoline and afterwards we got lots of pictures of her and all her new toys. Dad sent pictures to her and she responds simply with, "Does she know her Mimi sent her those gifts?" Of course not, but we told my mom she did. When my dad sent her the picture of Riley on the trampoline it wasn’t exactly the best picture, and it was while she was in the middle of a landing and wasn’t smiling, but looked a little surprised. My moms response was one for the books. “How dare you send me such a sad picture of my precious granddaughter. She looks so miserable on that thing and I can’t be there to make her feel better and play with her with the toys I bought her. How dare you let our daughter do this to me by keeping me from her...” Blah, blah, blah. I’m serious: it took me a long time to process what this woman was even talking about and where I’m the world it came from.

All I can say is this, I’m glad my daughter doesn’t have to grow up in a house where her mother manipulates every little aspect of every little thing. I made a promise to myself long before I ever got pregnant that I’d never be like my mother. As far as I can tell from what my dad has told me, I’m doing a pretty good job at keeping my promise.

“Riley is so lucky to have you as her mom. The level of patience, attention, and love she gets from you is far greater than that which your mother gave to you” —Dad.

In closing, all I can say is that even though I had it hard growing up with a mother who only cared only about work and socializing and making me a mini her, I did a good job at being my own person and overcoming the darkness she set to instill in me.