middle grandchild

Unspeakable

Please keep in your memory the fact that as I write these words about my daughter I am writing words I’ve never spoken, or written. For over twenty years, I have pushed it to the back of my mind, rarely letting myself think about it.

I was still living pay check to check, in a small adobe with slanted floors and no furniture except for an airbed. I was a Level I teacher, in my 4^th year of teaching, with a very small paycheck, at the age of 54.

I had no power to change anything.

It was even worse with my first grandson, when she tried to get him adopted, encouraged by a woman named, Janine. I was horrified that they had found a couple who wanted to adopt him and they were the same age as me. I knew that they were too old. I was 50 and I knew I was too old to raise a baby. I was in my first year of teaching, making less than a para-professional in the first year. My son and I were homeless the entire summer that my daughter was pregnant with my first grandchild.

Just before he was born, the couple who had arranged to adopt him chickened out. They learned there was schizophrenia in the bloodline and friends of theirs warned them, so they backed out. Even though I was glad he didn’t disappear from my life, I was outraged at the nerve they had to insult a family like that. They should never have agreed without thoroughly researching first.

I went to the hospital when my first grandson was born. My daughter was in labor with Janine and another woman standing beside her. I was surprised to see Janine still involved, since she hadn’t gotten the child. She and her friend ignored me, then moved around my daughter, put their big behinds in my face and backed up into me, forcing me out of the room with their butts.

My son sat just outside the door. I stood in the doorway and watched helplessly as their delivery methods were the most barbaric that I’ve ever witnessed. I had to pretend to my teenage son that nothing was out of the ordinary. I held my breath as I watched my grandson be delivered.

I stayed with him in intensive care until he was out, missing a few days of work. It was my first full year of teaching and I had to take some heat for it, argue with the secretary in charge of finding subs. I was taking more days than I had earned. I didn’t care.

I brought my daughter and grandson home, to our apartment in the slums of San Marcos. It was a two bedroom apartment that we’d just moved into after being homeless. We had a table, two beds and one couch.

My son had his own bedroom and my daughter was going to take the other bedroom. I was going to sleep on the couch in the living room, the way we had always lived while she was growing up.

I’d left a few boxes in the bedroom that my daughter was going to stay in. These belongings were not going to be unpacked for a while. She came out of the room and complained that there wasn’t enough room for her and her two week old son. I went in and moved the boxes against the wall, took a few out, and it appeared to be plenty of space for the situation. It was only temporary.

She went into the room and came out a second time, telling me there was still not enough room. I told her it was the best I could do and I swear there was no anger in my heart whatsoever when she declared, “Oh no! I’m not DOING this again!” and she marched out the front door. She sat on the porch for over an hour. I thought she was just pouting. Janine pulled up and off they went. I didn’t see my grandson again for a very long time. I didn’t have the power to fight with someone like Janine. She lived in a big nice house with a husband who took care of them all. I couldn’t compete with that.

Cleaning houses for 20 years had not put a lot of money in my pocket to store away for these rainy days.

With my second grandchild it went much quicker.

I was 900 miles away. It was the last day of school at the high school where I worked. There was a ceremony that evening. My grandson was born just when I returned home from the last day of school and I was preparing for the evening ceremony. My daughter called and told me she was about to give him up for adoption, but was having hesitation. She had already informed the family, repeatedly, that she was going to give him up since no one had helped her with her first child. Of course this hurt me deeply.

I begged her not to give him away. I told her about a job she could have at Head Start, just around the corner from the adobe, with a help wanted sign. I invited her to come and live with me again. I could hear my 3 year old grandson crying and asking her not to give his brother away. Suddenly the phone went dead. I had no way to call back. Janine had taken the phone away from her and hung up on me. Needless to say, I never went to the school ceremony. I grieved privately and quietly, very deeply.

My daughter posts his birthday on fb every year, with the story of how painful it was for her to give him away.

If you were to ask me if I despise this woman, Janine, I would have to say that I do, with every bone in my body. She makes my stomach turn and my skin crawl, and yet I’ve stayed silent for all these years while my daughter continues to praise her on social media, and thank her for always being there for her.

I didn’t hear from my daughter again, after Janine cut me off, until I returned to Texas.

“Where’s my family they promised me?” my daughter blurted out to me, soon after I arrived. She explained that Janine and others in her congregation had assured her that if she gave her second child away that the Lord would reward her with a husband and many other children. She was upset it hadn’t happened for her yet. My daughter continues to pray with this woman and help her proselytize and raise funds for right to life groups.

My daughter was very angry when she announced to the family that she was going to give her second child away. I wasn’t the only one who tried to talk her out of it. She made it very clear to everyone that she was doing it because she had not received enough help from anyone with her first child.

I had no money after 20 years as a maid, and only a few years of teaching when my daughter got pregnant. The first few years of teaching were overwhelming for me, but I don’t recall ever turning my daughter down when she asked me to babysit.

We lived in separate towns, maybe 30 minutes apart, so that made it difficult. What was it that I had done that wasn’t supportive enough? I really didn’t understand.

My grandson showed up one day, at the age of three, with his face covered in scratches. I asked my daughter about it and she said a pit bull had bitten him all over his face. I asked her not to take him to that house anymore and she argued that she could handle it, clearly offended. The next time he came with scratches on his face, I quietly asked my grandson if the pit bull had bitten him again, having learned not to discuss it with my daughter . He saw the worry in my eyes and this three year old boy looked at me and said, to parapharase, “It’s okay. It’s good for me to learn to be strong and look him in the eye.” He described how he learned to face down the pit bull.

I never confronted my daughter about it, or mentioned it. I didn’t call authorities on her, as she had done to me just a couple years earlier. Perhaps I was wrong to stay out of it, and accept it.

Now my grandson is an adult and he did indeed survive the pit bull. He hasn’t answered my emails, or responded to gifts or cards this year. I’m guessing he’s joined my daughter in her anger. It’s the gang up she’s always wanted, I suppose. I find myself wondering now just how far she’s willing to take her rage against me.

She blames me for everything.

I gave up my teaching certificate in order to withdraw all of my Texas Teacher retirement funds and moved to the state of New Mexico where I was certified. I was hoping to convince my daughter to move somewhere nearby, since New Mexico was a second home to her as well. That never happened.

It seems as though the theme of her life has been, “Look Mom, I found someone who is nicer than you, who lets me do what I want, who gives me more than you do, supports me more than you do,makes me feel better than you do.” The comparisons are endless.

I’ve always known and also told her she could do anything she wants. I’ve told her she’s a talented dancer, a talented writer. I carried around her report cards and awards in a briefcase when we visited either set of grandparents, always feeling I needed to prove something to all of them. I was proud of her. I believe she’s found it’s to her advantage to pretend otherwise.

I feel as though I’m broken by her for the last time.

And I’m a little bit miffed at the grandkids. I’m quite certain they’ve listened to stories about me all of their lives, told by those who hold nothing but ill will for me. Because the two people who despise me the most in Texas have used guns in the past to intimidate others. Yes, both of them were threatening to take their own lives with it, but they both did it to get their own way.

I just can’t live around unstable people like that, who also hate me unreasonably, simply because I speak truth without filters, when I choose to speak.

I chose to remain out of the state of Texas in order to avoid all of it, while I’ve learned that all of them discuss me negatively, and openly so, in front of my grandchildren. Never once have my grandchildren heard any stories from me, and they’ve chosen to estrange themselves from me nonetheless. I guess it’s what my daughter wanted.

Good job, daughter. You broke my heart. When will enough be enough for you?

My granddaughter has a life threatening condition and you have shut me out, refusing to send vital information, refusing to send any information.

All your life I’ve been shut out. I have had to learn to detach.

I keep asking myself if these are echoes of Becky, that twelve year old girl, who looked like a boy, so undeveloped was she. She told me her daddy wasn’t a bad man, that he really was Jesus, that he didn’t mean anyone any harm. She asked me not to interfere with their lives. It’s clear that this is what children of abusers do.