The Empty Arms Of A Mother

How I finally gave my sons what they really wanted

Photo by 光术 山影 on Unsplash

They are still my favorite memories.

My son, Brandon, was just a baby. He didn’t sit up by himself or crawl yet, so I would lay down a fluffy blanket on the carpet with all his little toys and play with him. His giggles sounded like angels singing, and the laughter traveled all the way to his bright blue eyes that beamed with happiness and curiosity.

Four years later, I had the same awesome experiences with Shawn, my younger son. He had the greatest belly laugh, and I would look as silly as I had to just to hear it. We’d play up until naptime and, when he woke up, we’d play some more.

During one playtime with Shawn, my then-husband came into the room and watched us for a minute. “Does that really make you happy?” he asked as if he felt sorry for me. I looked up at him and told him yes, because it was the happiest time in my life. I’d found my life’s purpose, being a mommy, and it completely fulfilled me.

I read all the parenting books. My favorites were “The First Three Years Of Life” and “The Baby Whisperer.” I took the boys to Gymboree and held and rocked them for hours when they cried. I would have sacrificed anything for them, even before I knew how painful it would be for myself.

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I had postpartum depression after Brandon was born, which kicked off a lifetime of episodes of shaky mental health. I had periods of stability, but I started having bad panic attacks and numbing depression. My husband was understanding until he wasn’t, and he eventually moved out of our house and in with his girlfriend who worked at his office.

Not only did I lose my husband, I lost his entire family that I had been a part of since I was seventeen. My mother-in-law was the only real mother I’d ever known, and she always cooked big Sunday dinners every week when the whole family came over. Of course, they still cared for and helped with the boys, but deep down I felt so alone. My own family was basically non-existent, so I couldn’t look there for support.

Raising the boys without my husband’s help was overwhelming at times, but they were the most loved and important people in my life, and I didn’t want to let them down. At the same time, I felt the sting of rejection from the breakup and hated myself for not being a good-enough wife. I had terrible insomnia, drank a little too much wine at night and wasn’t eating properly, both of which contributed to my growing instability.

Unfortunately, around this time, I started a relationship on a dating website just because the guy paid attention to me. My self-esteem was so low that I let Micah abuse me and insult me every day after the initial “love bombs” were dropped. He mostly ignored the boys, but when he started saying mean things about them, I packed them up and moved them to the other side of town.

Micah did not get the hint. He called every minute of the day and night, and eventually he found a way to break in to my house through the cheap lock on my sliding glass door so he could profess his love for me. I begged him to leave. I threatened to call the cops, but I was too weak and afraid to see him arrested. Micah went into the bathroom, and when he came out, he was face-to-face with the boys.

Thank goodness, he hurried out right after he was spotted, but I felt like I betrayed my kids. I told them they wouldn’t have to see Micah anymore, but there he was right in my hallway. I apologized and said it wouldn’t happen again, but I worried it was a promise I couldn’t keep if Micah kept stalking me.

No matter how badly I wanted to do right by my sons, I eventually had a big crash. My depression was so bad that I had to be briefly hospitalized. They readjusted my medication and sent me home two days later. About an hour after I walked through my front door, my ex-husband called asking to stop by. He had been watching the boys while I was in the hospital, but he didn’t mention bringing them home.

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I wouldn’t remember what he said to me that day, but I remembered the custody papers. I couldn’t really read them because I had tears in my eyes, but I had always trusted him with paperwork and that sort of thing, so I signed them quietly and said nothing else until his car pulled away.

After that, I cried so loud that I worried the neighbors would hear me. The pain was so horrible, it felt like I was having major open heart surgery without anesthesia. The most loved, most cherished little people in my life were gone. My ex-husband now had full custody and would decide where or when I saw them. I didn’t even get a chance to talk to them and explain things.

I blasted myself for being so unstable. I desperately wished I had kept myself under control and hadn’t reached out for the help that led to my hospitalization. My insomnia intensified, and my depression was off the charts. The only thing that kept me alive was knowing it would hurt my boys even more if I didn’t. So I moved through the world alone, watching them grow into men from far away, my wound getting bigger with every life event I missed.

No matter what I managed to accomplish after that, the overwhelming shame never left me, and I was never able to forgive myself for letting them go.

There was a huge cost to spending my whole life hating myself. I didn’t believe I deserved good things and settled for way less. I felt like the life’s purpose I discovered as a mother was taken from me because I was a bad person.

I was anxious whenever I saw my boys because I never really got to know them as they were becoming teenagers and then men. I was afraid of hurting them by saying the wrong thing. I worried about them constantly to the point where it annoyed them. I couldn’t relax in the role of mother without feeling like I didn’t deserve it.

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The boys are grown up now, 28 and 24. I’m grateful that they have allowed me to be part of their lives now. I apologized to them long ago for not being the mother they needed growing up. They were so quick to genuinely forgive me that, for a moment, I felt like a mother instead of a monster. When they did, it felt like the first little speck of light in the depths of my sadness, and it made me want to get better for them.

I learned to be consistent with them and do what I told them I would. I didn’t force them to bond with me, but they always knew I loved them more than anything and would have given them everything in the world if I was able. I kept my word, listened to them when they felt like talking and told them funny stories about when they were little. They always begged for more stories.

I finally realized one of the most important things I’ve ever learned about being a mother. Kids don’t just need to be happy, they need a happy mom, too. I vowed to do whatever I could to heal from the past and live a life where they didn’t worry about me all the time. They had seen me panicking and depressed and dissociated when they were little, but I felt that what they really needed to see from me as adults was calmness.

I also looked again at how I’d been framing the story of losing my children. For years, I believed I was a horrible person and too messed up to raise my own children, so I just let them go. I dealt with the “what kind of mother would do that” emails and phone calls from various people all while the boys were growing up. I never even stood up for myself because I hated myself much worse than anybody could hate me.

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Even though I didn’t remember what my ex-husband said on the day I signed over custody, I recall exactly what I felt like inside. Time was moving normally, but for me it slowed way down, and several things occurred to me at once. Of course, I wanted my boys to stay with me forever, but what was really best for them?

My ex-husband had a huge family while I had extremely little support from mine. He lived in a beautiful development in Jupiter Farms, which was a bit country-like with horses everywhere trotting up and down the streets. The boys’ grandparents were a few blocks over, and they were still young and active and excited to help with the boys.

There was really no use in taking my ex to court. His family was loaded, and I couldn’t even afford a lawyer. Plus, I wouldn’t have dragged the kids into something like that. More importantly, I knew he truly was the stable parent, at least at that time.

I knew the boys would have many more opportunities to do things with my ex like traveling to Disney or even to Europe. I rarely had the money to take them out for ice cream even though it hurt me to say no. They would have birthday parties and play dates and afternoons in the pool without a mother who was too anxious to take them places.

As much as I wanted to keep them with me always, I let the boys go live with their dad because I knew they would have much more happy and fulfilling lives. I didn’t want to be the mother they felt like they had to take care of. I’d already lived that experience with my own mother, and it was no way for a kid to grow up.

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I won’t pretend it didn’t hurt. It still hurts in ways I still don’t have words for. Somewhere along the way, however, I stopped calling it an abandonment story and started calling it what it really was, a mother’s love wanting the best for the children she loved the most. Real love has always had a long memory, and so does healing and returning to it.

That’s really all Brandon and Shawn were asking for anyway, for their mother to love them and love herself.

If you’re in the middle of the hardest chapter of your life right now, I just want you to know this isn’t the whole story. Not yours. Not mine. There are pages still being written that we can’t see yet.

Keep going in search of peace. You are a lot more than your worst moment. And so am I.

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