Each child strives for love from their mother and father. We want them to love us endlessly and without ever saying it, we want them to love us the most. We want to be the favorite child among all the other window trolls. I am now certain that I am not my mother’s favorite child. I didn’t have to ask her and didn’t need a direct answer. It was because of the “funny story” she told me about my childhood. My sister talked about her birth. I’ll talk about mine. This is my story of my birth. This is me sharing with the internet how my mother has already explained wholeheartedly that I am not least favorite child.
I was at breakfast with my mom. It’s a weekly thing we do. We’ve been doing it for many years. If memory serves me right, it’s been at least 10 years that we meet up once a week for breakfast. Scary to imagine how much we have spent just eating. That’s okay though. We all need to spend time with our parents. I enjoy our weekly meetings. She’ll read her book and I’ll work on the local crossword. I have to watch what she eats. The doctor has her on a diet that prevents her from eating what she likes. I feel it’s better to have breakfast with her than to have dinner or lunch. She cannot have red meat and like me, my mother loves steak. I avoid having dinner with because she’ll ignore me and say it’s okay to have a little red meat here and there. It’s not. The doctor says no. I figured it’s best to avoid any chances of having lunch or dinner with her so she cannot cave and bite into a juicy piece of steak. I like to think of it as being protective of my mother and caring for her even if it a dickish thing to do.
But to the point I am trying to make. While at breakfast, my mother and I were speaking about the day I was born. I brought up that silly poem, Monday’s Child. If you never heard of it, read it below.
Monday’s child is fair of face,
Tuesday’s child is full of grace,
Wednesday’s child is full of woe,
Thursday’s child has far to go,
Friday’s child is loving and giving,
Saturday’s child works hard for a living,
But the child who is born on the Sabbath Day
Is bonny and blithe and good and gay.
I am a Saturday’s child. That only proves that fact that I am a workaholic and would rather be working than sitting at home playing Plants Vs. Zombies 2 till my fingers blister. My mother talked about the day I was born. She wasn’t just moseying about the house doing nothing, nor was she resting in bed with child, knowing well enough that her least favorite son was going to enter this world with a penchant for zombies, blogging, and a witty sense of humor. What was my mother doing? What crazy thing was my mom doing before I started pushing my way out from inside her? She was painting a room. Yes. My mother, a woman with child, was painting a room. Was it my room? Not likely. I am sure it was a room from another older sibling that she loved more than the unborn child inside her. Like I said, my mother loves me the least.
The paint fumes must have scarred and left me with issues. Maybe the anxiety attacks and the hatred for human contact is because while she painted that room for my older brother or sister, I was inhaling the deadly toxins, unaware of the permanent scars it will leave me with, unleashing hell on me 32 years later. It is a long shot and maybe my imagination running wild but I do believe her painting that room was her first sign that she didn’t love me like the others.
It helps but so does being medicated.
Does it stop there? No. My mother tried later in life to prove to me and the other siblings that while I was the new addition to the family, I wasn’t the one that was going to get the extra kisses at night or the extra hug when I cried. I was a burden. I am not saying I was a mistake. That’s my little sister but that’s another story. Did know you my sister was going to be named Bart if she was a boy? Sucks for her. All the Bort license plates readily available but nowhere will she find one with Bart on it. Makes me laugh that I could have had a little brother named, Bart. I got stuck with a little sister. She’ll do.
My mother and I continued to eat. I drank my coffee and she sipped on her hot tea. She spoke about my brother having issues when he was born and how he was quickly taken care of. It was urgent that he was tended to as quick as possible. Again, illness struck me and I was in need of a visit to the ER. My mother didn’t rush me there. She figured it would pass. She took my illness, the illness of a baby still in his pampers, as nothing but a little headache. “It’ll be fine. We’ll wait it out.”
What illness did this infant have? I was dehydrated. I was turning into a damn prune and my mother, who I love dearly, shrugged her shoulders and speaking to my dad, says,
“We’ll just see how he is in the morning. I’m sure he’ll be okay. Just pour some water on him.”
Okay. I am stretching the truth a little. She didn’t really say that. She did say she waited to take me the hospital. Why, mom!? Why did you wait? Could all my issues I struggle with today be because of her lack of love for me? I don’t know. I am not a doctor. I don’ t know if the paint fumes and the dehydration I suffered when I was a baby brought on these attacks. Maybe those are the repressed memories I am dealing with that are causing these recent panic attacks. Like I said earlier, my mother loves me the least. I wonder if I can find that lady that came into work that one day. (read about her here) She has a son named Kirk and he doesn’t seem to fond of it. Maybe I can let her adopt me and after the papers are signed and tears of joy are shed by my biological mother, I can be accepted and be loved by a mother who won’t ignore me when I am dehydrated or won’t stick me in a room to inhale deadly paint fumes. She was nice. I got a mug from her. What did my real mom get me? Years of pain and neglect.
I better mention that this isn’t serious. My mother loves me. Just not the most. If there is one person my mother hates the most, it’s my sister Emily. I miss her. She was before Bart. We don’t talk about her much. It upsets Bart. She vanished one day. I am sure it was Witch Hazel. My mother doesn’t even speak about Emily. It’s like she never existed. I guess I am okay then. I guess I am not the least loved. That honor goes to my youngest sister, Emily. I love you, wherever you are.
pitweston
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