Turtles

 My advocate was a scout master.  In his troop, he often talked of a certain young man, called Wesley.  Wesley was a good kid but had the funniest things happen to him while in the scouts.  When I get sad, or depressed, or want to smile, I will ask him to tell me a Wesley story.  He has so many really fun memories of this boy, and his other scouts...I love listening to his stories of scouting mayhem.  How fun for those boys, what positive memories they all have.  I love listening to stories of people childhoods and the joy they experienced growing up.....

My own kids had the same joy...they had two loving, kind and respectable parents.  Their parents did fun things with them, was involved in everything they did, good or bad, took billions of pictures and have filled scores of photo albums of their childhoods....My kids have fond, fun memories...very few bad ones, very few...my kids were so blessed....

That was always my goal.  To be a mother, the kind of mother my own mother was not, to nurture, train, and teach my children how to become adults, how to be confident in their own skin.  How to be independent and happy.  I felt I did a good job.  At least the best that I could do.

When I look back on my childhood, I do not have happy memories, no fun "wesley" stories.  But I do have good memories (very few)  of times I visited with my "uncle" and his family (he was actually my bio dad)...those few times were happy.  I believe I was happy...at least as happy as a little girl could be given the situation she was in....but when he would bring me back to my mothers, my happiness ended and my fear started.

Once when I was visiting with my "uncle"  he bought me one of those little bitty turtles that was so popular when I was a child.  He bought me a little water bowl with a rock and stuff for the turtle to crawl on.   I was so happy with that new critter.  When it was time for me to go back to my mothers, he brought the turtle back with me.   

My mom was all smiles and fake motherhood, until he left.  She put the turtle on the kitchen table.   

Later that night, my "dad" (stepdad) came home, angry and drunk, as usual....he saw the turtle in the bowl on the table and asked about it.  When she told him that my "uncle" had bought it for me, he got angry.

He grabbed the bowl and yelled for me to meet him in the bathroom.

I walked in, and he had the bowl on the floor.  He told me that I could not have this little turtle because they spread disease.  Do I want everyone in the house to get sick???  He then had ME pick the turtle up out of the bowl and flush it down the toilet.  

I remember the turtle squirming in my hand, but I did not cry...I flushed him down and went to my room.....

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I am so thankful that my own children do not have memories like that to have to deal with.  Despite everything, my kids can NEVER say I was cruel to them, that I beat them, that I didn't love them...their childhood memories are happy ones...

Seems like every fucking childhood memory I have is tragic and unbelievable...WHY?

Why can't I have a fun and happy childhood memories that are my own?  I know that I lived my childhood through my kids...I played with them, I played with their toys, I watched movies with them, I supported every thing they participated in.  So, I did get to be a "grown up kid" with them.

Now I have Ally.  Playing, happy, free, and I am grateful and sad at the same time.  I should never have needed an Ally, or a Lilly, or a Sophee, or a Sammy, or a Tessa, or a 7...

I should have just been regular kid, Melissa.  Normal kid, Melissa.  Loved kid, Melissa.

But, that was not in the plans that the universe had already carved out for me.  

I am Sparrow.