It would take too many posts to catch you up on the Sorta situation. I know, I know, I said that he was out of the picture posts ago and he should be. What can I say to defend my stupidity other than I like him?
We were supposed to meet up in New Orleans during my visit. He got the days off work and everything. We were supposed to chill. Long story short, he stood me up, claiming that he got sick after eating something on Canal Street. Two things: of course you got sick eating something on Canal Street and I'm not sure I believe him. I want to because he has been honest in the past, I think, and again, because I like him and the hassle of finding a new beau is just overwhelming!
Fast forward to yesterday. The doorbell rang and my mother ran to get the door. This is odd, seeing that my mom is 45 with the knees of Father Time and the back of a field hand. So yes, seeing her run up the stairs aroused my suspicions. Who was at the door? Why it was Al. Yay.
For lack of a better term, I call him my stepfather, for there really isn't a phrase to define a man who never married your mother yet fathered her other children while reigning Hell on your childhood. I'm being kind when I call him pathetic. But I will leave the treasure that is Al for another post. He is not the point of the story. The point of the story is how my mother runs to this negro, still, after years of him shitting on her and her children.
Watching this grotesque display got me to thinking about Sorta. How many times do I have to be slapped before I realize that I am being mistreated? My mom is still getting slapped. Brownie told me I deserve better. I agree. What happened to my mom that she didn't care to look for someone better? Did she just get tired like I am now? Whatever the case may be, the whole sight kicked some sense into me, because even though I don't want to be alone, I don't want to be my mother.
Showing posts with label mother. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mother. Show all posts
Friday, February 19, 2010
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Facebook and the Young Mother
It seems that I can not log on to Facebook these days without seeing some Sears portrait of another one of my friends pregnant or holding her newborn with her bejeweled, cornrowed baby-daddy.
When I was in middle school, I remember fearing getting my period because once you got a period, you could get pregnant, and once you got pregnant, your life would be over and you would receive a first-class ticket from the state to the community college, a bus pass, and some WIC vouchers which, since you could get real cheese and Juicy Juice, would make the whole thing feel worthwhile. And then of course, you would have the baby, your Aunty would throw you a shower in the back of her hair salon with you and twenty of your other pregnant, teen buddies, and then your boyfriend would disappear...either by choice or incarceration.
I say all this to say that I have been groomed from a young age to fear pregnancy; to loathe the idea of having a baby. So when I log on to Facebook for my daily chats and photo surfing, my stomach tightens to see that a large portion of my female friends, some of them up to five years younger than me, are having or have had a baby. The other day I had to stop myself from accidentally posting "I'm sorry girl:(" under one of the pics of her newborn.
Okay, I know what you are thinking and yes, I am aware that I am 24 and that is old enough to start a family. But if you mention the word baby to me, I might as well be twelve, waiting for my first period. I am also aware that if I want to start a family, the best of my baby-bearing years will be over is 6 years. Who wants to be the oldest mom at the PTA meeting, the one that they stick with making the bake sale cookies because all the young mothers have jobs and active social lives?
And guys with kids? Please, every guy I have liked that I met outside of the college dating pool has had kids. My mom had a boyfriend when I was growing up. A child doesn't have to tell me how much they hate the fill-in step parent.
Do I want kids? I don't know. I do know that once I felt that I was sooo in love that I wanted to have a boy's babies. Can you imagine? If that disaster would have come to pass, I would have a two-year-old right now! I would be the one with pics of myself at the birthday party with the Batman cake and the Bob the Builder birthday dunce caps; I would be a mother.
Mother. Christ, it feels like I just learned how to spell that word while I have friends that are living it. It's weird! One day, probably about six years from now, I will be complaining about wanting kids and not having any, hoping that I keep getting periods as long as possible until I can make it to the sperm bank. Six years from now my baby fear will be replaced by...by no-baby fear.
For now, I guess all I can do is be there for my new mommy homies, and wait with my chastity belt slightly ajar, in hopes of finding the bejeweled, cornrowed baby-daddy of my dreams.
When I was in middle school, I remember fearing getting my period because once you got a period, you could get pregnant, and once you got pregnant, your life would be over and you would receive a first-class ticket from the state to the community college, a bus pass, and some WIC vouchers which, since you could get real cheese and Juicy Juice, would make the whole thing feel worthwhile. And then of course, you would have the baby, your Aunty would throw you a shower in the back of her hair salon with you and twenty of your other pregnant, teen buddies, and then your boyfriend would disappear...either by choice or incarceration.
I say all this to say that I have been groomed from a young age to fear pregnancy; to loathe the idea of having a baby. So when I log on to Facebook for my daily chats and photo surfing, my stomach tightens to see that a large portion of my female friends, some of them up to five years younger than me, are having or have had a baby. The other day I had to stop myself from accidentally posting "I'm sorry girl:(" under one of the pics of her newborn.
Okay, I know what you are thinking and yes, I am aware that I am 24 and that is old enough to start a family. But if you mention the word baby to me, I might as well be twelve, waiting for my first period. I am also aware that if I want to start a family, the best of my baby-bearing years will be over is 6 years. Who wants to be the oldest mom at the PTA meeting, the one that they stick with making the bake sale cookies because all the young mothers have jobs and active social lives?
And guys with kids? Please, every guy I have liked that I met outside of the college dating pool has had kids. My mom had a boyfriend when I was growing up. A child doesn't have to tell me how much they hate the fill-in step parent.
Do I want kids? I don't know. I do know that once I felt that I was sooo in love that I wanted to have a boy's babies. Can you imagine? If that disaster would have come to pass, I would have a two-year-old right now! I would be the one with pics of myself at the birthday party with the Batman cake and the Bob the Builder birthday dunce caps; I would be a mother.
Mother. Christ, it feels like I just learned how to spell that word while I have friends that are living it. It's weird! One day, probably about six years from now, I will be complaining about wanting kids and not having any, hoping that I keep getting periods as long as possible until I can make it to the sperm bank. Six years from now my baby fear will be replaced by...by no-baby fear.
For now, I guess all I can do is be there for my new mommy homies, and wait with my chastity belt slightly ajar, in hopes of finding the bejeweled, cornrowed baby-daddy of my dreams.
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