No, I'm not perfect!

This might come as a shock to anyone who knows me personally, but I have to admit that I am far from perfect. And how do I know that? I heard it from my son. He tells me he loves me all day long and at night also while he talks in his sleep, but he also tells me when I make mistakes. In fact he tells me about my mistakes over and over again, it seems to never be over!

When he was not even two years old, I closed a door on his finger. Yes, of course, it was an accident! He was following me and I had not seen him, I closed the bedroom door behind me, and when it resisted, I closed it harder. This is when I heard the screams. I looked down, and there he was, looking at me with big crying eyes.

For the next four of five years, this incident came back to haunt my conversations with friends, teachers, employers. Whenever he had an opportunity, he managed to slip it in: "Yes, my Mum did that too, she pinched my finger in the door once..." Everyone's shaming eyes then stared in my direction, and me, smiling, red-faced, apologized yet again and explained in less dramatic words the very (very!) old-but-not-yet-forgotten incident. We have a whole collection of this type of mishaps that he brings up at will.

Since I lost my job, my son has been more than supportive. Through my spell of depression, he made me tea, took me out for walks, prepared baths for me, scrubbed my back, sang songs for me and went to the farm to buy milk in the early morning so I'd have what I needed for breakfast. He never once asked if I had done anything wrong at work that could justify my getting fired, which was a relief.

However, now that we are settled in our new life-style, where I stay at home, wonder about the future and life in general and he goes to school and tries to work as hard as possible to make me proud of his studies, there are times when I deserve his reprimands.

I often give in to frustration, above all now that money issues are really starting to kick in. I don't lose my temper and start to break stuff like some of the people I have lived with. This is far from my style, but I cry and I complain to myself, forgetting that he can hear me. Somehow, because the rest of the time, he is being so mature, I kind of expect him to understand this as is, listen quietly, and go about his business. But this is forgetting that even though he is a "little" man, he is still a male, who wants to help me and fix things for me, and convince me that crying won't help and I should pick myself up and fight the odds.

I know that! At times, I just can't and I need the down time. Tears are water, and water washes pain away. But for my little boy, water that comes out of Mommy's eyes is wet and cold, and he wants to close the tap. So he lectures me. He tells me all the things he would like me to do in order to feel better. He lets me know that he is disappointed when he sees that I give up.

Oh, man! Can't a single-unemployed-broke woman catch a break? Well, probably not. I have to admit that I always end up agreeing with him. It does not help to whine and cry. So, it might come as a shock to anyone who has known me for a while, but no, I am not perfect, but I try hard.

What? Wrestling? Please, I'm a single mum! Don't push it!

It happened about three years ago. My son, then eight years old, suddenly became passionate over wrestling. As far as I was concerned, wrestling was mainly about big huge guys beating each other up in a cloud of sweat and shiny muscles. I did not even know if it was actually possible to become that muscly or to grab someone in an arm lock without causing the other party a fatal brain or spine damage. Did I care? Not so much!

And here I was in a new situation: sitting with my son, browsing through magazines where half-naked men and women advised readers to stay away from drugs and never attempt to repeat their moves at home. Nice motto, I could not argue with that.

I spent the next year or so listening to how great John Cena was and reluctantly nodding my head when told that so and so was now 130 kilos, when I was fighting against chocolate and cookies to lose my extra 10...

Finally, the ultimatum dropped down:
 -"I am so happy with my life right now, all I need now for it to be totally great is to see a real WWE match!"

Ha! No kidding! That was all he needed to have a more than wonderful life... As a single Mum, you can imagine that most of my days, I slaved restlessly to make this little boy as happy to live with me as he could be. I tried to replace father, father's friends, father's brothers, in short all the manly companionship a boy could get and admire, and learn from. It was a full time job!

So, I seemed to finally have reached my limits. There was no way I could even contemplate finding out how to take him to a wrestling match. Even if I did, what was I supposed to do there? Squeak every time a punch would be thrown, run over with a wet wipe when one guy's eyebrow would start bleeding, hide my face in my hands and cry after witnessing these giants throwing each other off the ring?

I decided to play it safe:
 - "You know what? If I meet a new "Daddy" soon, or if Uncle Pat or Grand-pa one day accept to go with you, then, you can go. All right? Beside, I don't even know if a boy your age can enter such a violent event as a WWE showdown."

That was a cheap shot. I knew most of the kids his age were as passionate as he was about wrestling if not, why would the stars be going on about not copying their moves at home? I also knew that there was no way on earth my father would go to a WWE match, and I also would have bet money on the fact that my brother-in-law never took his own son to any kind of matches... So, where did that leave me?
At some point, I would have to figure out a way.

As my son's 10th birthday neared, I searched the Internet for the closest WWE match in the near future. I found out that they regularly toured Europe, so there would be a chance to see a match. I searched a suitable date and booked two tickets.
Needless to say, my son was over the moon. He claimed to have the best Mum ever.

The hardest was still to come. I had to sit through the match, without whining or screaming or looking horrified so that my son could have the time of his life and of course, so that I would remain the best Mum in the world.

A few weeks before the event, I forced myself to sprout any kind of interest in wrestling. I asked my son questions about the different stars. I figured that if I picked a couple of favorite fighters, we would have a challenge going on him and me, as to whether our favs would show up for the match or not.

On D-Day, I was as excited as he was, probably not for the same reasons. He jumped around and thanked me every minute. I was ecstatic. This was, despite all, turning out to be a fantastic moment for the two of us.
We sat in the audience and when the music started, we both jumped up and cheered as loud as we could. During the several matches, we clapped and called out champions' names, followed the chanting of the crowd. It was wonderful!

At the end of the evening, the last match was going to start and, because I had done my homework, I knew the theme songs of my favorite (Randy Orton), I still was very surprised to hear:

I hear voices in my head  

They council me  

They understand  

They talk to me

My son screamed over the noise: "He is here!" and we watched as RKO, surrounded by show smoke greeted the crowd at the entrance curtain.

This was a great episode of our life and what I would call a success for a single Mum. I pulled that through and even managed to enjoy myself. But the thing I cherish the most was to see the glitter in my son's eyes as he saw that, even though he knew I was coming there just to accompany him, some supreme power brought the champion I had picked to this event. He went on and on about how lucky I was, and never mind all his heroes did not show up, he got to see a couple of them, and... his Mum's favorite came and SHE had a blast!

Help! My Son is Alienated!

-       "Mummy, where you there when I was born?“ 

My 4-year old son is standing in front of me, just woken up and rubbing his eyes.

I smile and cuddle him, shuffle his hair and ask if he wants breakfast. I do all this gently, softly, lovingly. Inside my head, through my pierced heart, every neuron, every blood cell is screaming "WHAT?“

I wish I could scream:

 - "Whose belly was it the doctor cut open to find you? Whose skin was stapled back like the seven pages of a contract bonding you and me forever once you were seeing the light?"

I am chocking on acid flooding into my mouth.

 - "Who spent three hours in the reanimation room while "he“, the hated man I did not want to even look at you, was playing "Dad“ and giving you a bath? He knew very well he had nothing to do with your happening into my life, yet, he played a role, he threatened me and the people I loved to cover up his uselessness"

But I gather all my love for him, take him up in my arms and I rock him from side to side:

-       "Yes, Baby, I was there when you were born, I made you. I was there all the time.“

-       "Ah... OK!“

He wiggles to get down and sits at the table, smiling and asking for his bowl of hot chocolate.

As my body automatically follows on auto-pilot, heats up water, pours chocolate powder, starts a toast... my brain is racing. This has been a constant state of mind for me, from the time I have known I was pregnant. On the one hand, I do what everyone "expects“ from me, on the other hand, my mind lives in its own space and time.

A space where I am with my child, where I can be his mother and am "allowed“ to do what other Mums do. A time when his father is with us, smiling and laughing and telling him stories from his culture. I have never been to Africa but he told me about it, and he tells our son about it, when we meet during holidays, when my life gets a window of normality, when I am free to be who I want to be.

But reality hits me in the face constantly, and, in order not to go totally insane, not to bang my head against the walls or worse, whatever worse a mother can do to save her child, I must smile and nod and not forget to show love to my little bundle of joy who is babbling away, telling me about his dreams and aspirations.

I am a mother, who is deprived of all the rights of motherhood as long as the oppressor is awake. Thank God, he sleeps most of the day, but then the circus starts at about 5 PM and goes on restlessly until the wee hours of the morning,  when he finally runs out of reasons to keep me awake, or when I finally slam the bedroom door hard enough that he decides all else will have to wait until tomorrow’s drama unfolds... inevitably.

I am a teacher, who is deprived of any influence on my growing boy. I am an Early Years specialist, I give classes to adults about parenting a young child, and I am denied interacting with my son, I am denied having an influence on any part of his day, what he eats, what he does, when he goes to sleep or how he naps. I teach other parents, but I am not allowed to practice my teachings.

"He“, however, gets all authority. If I refute what he says, he goes to his computer, where the "Internet people“ are so much more clever than me. He surfs and browses forums and I have to sit and listen. He prints out pages and pages so that I can "educate myself.“

I am a modern educator, I do not believe in drilling children, I work on a different pedagogical method with my students. I am in favor of letting children find their way, teaching them by role modeling, encouraging, and inspiring, letting them explore and discover, guiding them.  

At home, however, I see my son sitting on a chair, reciting the alphabet, not by heart, not as a song, but as a drill that he must repeat for about one hour every day. Tears roll down his eyes, he is scared to move, worried to miss one letter. He is staring at the alphabet, two pages of pain that he suffers every evening when he should be in bed.

I try not to discuss in front of my son, but somehow, "he“ always makes sure my baby's around when he starts his "lectures." When I still resist and try to explain my point of view and why I think I am right and I would like to follow my methods, he looks at me, smiling:

-       "Yeah, you can always try, it is not me, you know, but he won’t let you, he is also more clever than you. And you start to look crazy, anyway, look at you! Doesn't she, boy?“

Yes it is true, at this point in the conversation, my eyes are probably watery, my neck is stretched out in a fighting position, my arms are stiff by my side... I indeed must look crazy... and stupid too.

My eyes fall down on my son, sitting beside this man I refuse in our life. I melt down. Oh, how much I love this little boy and how much I want to let him enjoy what I know about babies, their needs and their development! How much I wish to wipe the tears off his sweet face!

The muscles in my arms soften, and my body slumps.

Rage unfurls inside me refusing this life I can’t stand, but on the outside, there is so much love for this son. I will never do anything to hurt him. He can’t understand this now, but one day (I sincerely hope so!) he will know that I did the right thing by not continuing the numerous fights in his presence. I spin around and escape to the bedroom, frustrated, I hear the detested voice:

-       "Yes, and she is gone again, that’s her answer to every problem she creates, what do you think, boy?“

More than his words, the silence that follows tears my heart. My son is growing used to this. I can see he tries not to get involved, he shuts down when he hears the discussions starting.

What am I doing to him? How to get out of this?

I close my eyes and I go back to my own space and time. A space where "he“ is not there, a time when I am a mother who is given the gift of a life with her baby. 

The Making of a Single Mum

In 2007, I left my ex-husband and the country where I had been living and working for five years, to start a new life in Switzerland.

I journeyed for 36 hours in a rented car from Warsaw to Geneva. I loaded the car with our meager belongings (what was left of it... what I could salvage) : my books, some clothes, a couple of toys, plates and glasses, towels. Early that morning, I shoved my kid in the back seat, and when he started to cry, I tried to calm him down by saying:
 -"I know how you feel, but this is the best for us." Out of arguments, my last try: "Trust me!"

How could he? He had been on this earth for five years and a bit, and during his entire life, he had heard how my patriarchal husband put me down, he had seen me physically hurt by someone who was supposed to love me until death would do us part. But more than anything, he had seen my trying to compromise and amend, apologizing, trying to find solace in this horrid home life, crying myself to sleep. Why would he trust me?

This was my last chance to have a life. A life where I would be free of fear, free of worry, and able to live my dreams, whatever they were.

My stomach ached when we would be having breakfast and he'd ask:
 - "Can I have some powder chocolate on my toast, quick before he wakes up?" and his eyes would be worryingly checking the corridor "just in case" for this once, the patriarch would wake up before 5PM.

Why would he trust me?

We used to sneak out of the apartment, early morning on Sundays. He, on his bike, and me, with a smile on my face and my camera in my hand. We would go to the woods, count acorns for his week-end Math homework, measure tree trunks and compare twigs with our arms, and more than anything else, breathe.
After one hour, I would start worrying in case "he" would wake up and not find us at home. I'd start feeling edgy and we'd hurry back, without a word, quietly hoping that he would still be asleep.
One day, he woke up as we reached home and forbid us to ever sneak out again without having first asked him if he would like to join us. He accused me of "stealing his time away from my son". Oh, yes, he had this miraculous talent to twist reality around!
The following Sunday, I woke him up, he said we should wait for him. He got up around 5PM and when I said it was too late to go, he replied:
 - "Well, then, next time, don't make such a fuss about your Sunday expedition!"
That was the end of our free time in the woods. 

Why would my son trust me?

When I pulled out in front of our new house in Geneva, it was 5:30PM and we were exhausted. Me from driving, my son from crying.
That night, we sat in the dark, on the carpet of the empty living room, and nibbled on a pack of left-over crisps, feeling miserable. We had nothing, but I had my son, we had each other. I had the certitude this was the start of our new life, but somehow, I had diddly squat to show for it. My son looked very sad and it broke my heart.

The next day at 8AM, I started my new job, and my son started his new school.

To be continued...