Everyone says I'm the adult. Im Mum. If there is a problem with a child, I have to swallow my hurt, self respect and any other feelings, and open a door for my child to enter. I agree. It's true.
This is a new experience for me. What I will do for Tara, I would not do for any person. If someone disrespects, hurts, or abuses me, in theory, there is no way I would return repeatedly to face more of it. The truth of the matter is, in the past-I have. The reasons, the background etc are too complicated to go into. I did eventually break away from the people who caused me so much agony. Somewhat.
My Tara is the very air I breathe. Only now, it's a grief stricken, quivering breath, not the heady intoxicating loving breath, that made life feel like a reward for living a deeply anguished life before she came along.
With all that in my mind, I planned everything out in my head. Last week, after pick up from school, instead of going into the house, I stayed in the car with her. I had decided not to hide behind a facade of a controlled exterior in case Tara thought I didn't care. I spoke from my heart about how hurt I was and more than anything how bewildered I was, that the two of us who were partners in crime in everything till a few months ago, could now not have any sort of communication other than cold, curt sentences from Tara.
I asked her if anything had happened at school, if someone had said something, or if I had done or said anything different that made her exclude me from her life so abruptly. She sat listening quietly, and after a few seconds of silence I couldn't hold back my tears. I'd cried for hours in my bed every night since November, but I held my chin up every day, hoping to hang on to my self respect. These tears streaming down my face, felt like acid eating up what was left of my dignity. I deserved an answer. I got none.
I drew my breath in, and in that deafening silence I looked at Tara and told her I wouldn't ask her anything else. I only need an answer. Why? With that we went in and the matter ended there.
Dinner was as usual, her sweet banter with her father was as usual, they both watched tv as usual. I was not part of anything as usual. I have survived a lot of situations since I was a toddler. My body and soul were ravaged. I survived it. This pain I feel is worse than that. I did nothing to deserve any of it. If I did, I needed to know. I don't know if I can come back again and again to face this torture like Ive done most of my life. For that, if I am now crucified for being a bad Mum, maybe I will accept it.
Life goes on. We wake up the next day, I still fill Tara's water bottle and pack her a snack, I drive her to school and pick her up every day. I still clean her room, do her washing, iron her clothes, I change her bed linen, cook her dinner. I do everything, Im just not her Mum.
What I don't do, is pull her curtains open every morning, block out the sun and kiss her cheek as her arms tumble around my neck for those few seconds of bliss. What we don't do is discuss and analyse her theatrical dreams while she wakes up. What I don't do is lay her uniform out and brush her hair into one pony-tail or two depending on what Tara wants that day. What we don't do is leave for school discussing the songs playing on the radio, or the quiz that is too easy. What we don't do is hug goodbye as she goes into school and hug again when she come out. What I don't do is study for two hours everyday so I can ensure Tara is never lacking support with her school work. What I don't do is rehearse all her Drama and Speech class poems and prose, so we can discuss what the best way to perform the pieces on stage would be. What we don't do is talk about who did what in school, or what a teacher said or what drama played out at break. What we don't do is chat in the kitchen while I prepare her dinner. What I don't do is take photographs of Tara, one for every day since the day she was born. What we don't do is snuggle up on the sofa watching our favourite shows-laughing at the same jokes at the same time. What I don't do is brush her hair again at night, off-loading any cares and concerns on Mum while her hair is done into a little braid. What we don't do is say our evening prayers together and tuck her to bed.
What I don't do is return to her room every night after her father has kissed her goodnight and shut the door, so that Tara gets her final kiss from me, as she whispered conspiratorially "save the best for last, Mum".
This is a new experience for me. What I will do for Tara, I would not do for any person. If someone disrespects, hurts, or abuses me, in theory, there is no way I would return repeatedly to face more of it. The truth of the matter is, in the past-I have. The reasons, the background etc are too complicated to go into. I did eventually break away from the people who caused me so much agony. Somewhat.
My Tara is the very air I breathe. Only now, it's a grief stricken, quivering breath, not the heady intoxicating loving breath, that made life feel like a reward for living a deeply anguished life before she came along.
With all that in my mind, I planned everything out in my head. Last week, after pick up from school, instead of going into the house, I stayed in the car with her. I had decided not to hide behind a facade of a controlled exterior in case Tara thought I didn't care. I spoke from my heart about how hurt I was and more than anything how bewildered I was, that the two of us who were partners in crime in everything till a few months ago, could now not have any sort of communication other than cold, curt sentences from Tara.
I asked her if anything had happened at school, if someone had said something, or if I had done or said anything different that made her exclude me from her life so abruptly. She sat listening quietly, and after a few seconds of silence I couldn't hold back my tears. I'd cried for hours in my bed every night since November, but I held my chin up every day, hoping to hang on to my self respect. These tears streaming down my face, felt like acid eating up what was left of my dignity. I deserved an answer. I got none.
I drew my breath in, and in that deafening silence I looked at Tara and told her I wouldn't ask her anything else. I only need an answer. Why? With that we went in and the matter ended there.
Dinner was as usual, her sweet banter with her father was as usual, they both watched tv as usual. I was not part of anything as usual. I have survived a lot of situations since I was a toddler. My body and soul were ravaged. I survived it. This pain I feel is worse than that. I did nothing to deserve any of it. If I did, I needed to know. I don't know if I can come back again and again to face this torture like Ive done most of my life. For that, if I am now crucified for being a bad Mum, maybe I will accept it.
Life goes on. We wake up the next day, I still fill Tara's water bottle and pack her a snack, I drive her to school and pick her up every day. I still clean her room, do her washing, iron her clothes, I change her bed linen, cook her dinner. I do everything, Im just not her Mum.
What I don't do, is pull her curtains open every morning, block out the sun and kiss her cheek as her arms tumble around my neck for those few seconds of bliss. What we don't do is discuss and analyse her theatrical dreams while she wakes up. What I don't do is lay her uniform out and brush her hair into one pony-tail or two depending on what Tara wants that day. What we don't do is leave for school discussing the songs playing on the radio, or the quiz that is too easy. What we don't do is hug goodbye as she goes into school and hug again when she come out. What I don't do is study for two hours everyday so I can ensure Tara is never lacking support with her school work. What I don't do is rehearse all her Drama and Speech class poems and prose, so we can discuss what the best way to perform the pieces on stage would be. What we don't do is talk about who did what in school, or what a teacher said or what drama played out at break. What we don't do is chat in the kitchen while I prepare her dinner. What I don't do is take photographs of Tara, one for every day since the day she was born. What we don't do is snuggle up on the sofa watching our favourite shows-laughing at the same jokes at the same time. What I don't do is brush her hair again at night, off-loading any cares and concerns on Mum while her hair is done into a little braid. What we don't do is say our evening prayers together and tuck her to bed.
What I don't do is return to her room every night after her father has kissed her goodnight and shut the door, so that Tara gets her final kiss from me, as she whispered conspiratorially "save the best for last, Mum".
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