Regarding our kin

Posted on | August 2, 2011 | 2 Comments

I keep wanting to update you on the homestead - the fact that our chickens have begun laying and my bush beans are ripe.  But there's something weighing heavy on my mind.

Family.

Preparing to bring life into this world reminds you where you came from.  The lovely yet dysfunctional family we call home.  Me, with my hippy yet enraged cohort of a family, and b with his highly educated and oh-so slightly passive aggressive folks. But we love them so.  They were there for us.  When I suffered my first heartbreak, my mother was there (albeit threatening to go to his house and throw eggs at it while cussing).  When B introduced me to his family after the demise of a lengthy relationship of his, they welcomed me with open arms.  No questions asked, trusting him solely.  That's family.  The good and the bad, the smile yet excruciatingly painful dinners and conversations we sometimes must endure.

But what about those that weren't there for you?

I grew up with a single mother.  My father lived with us until I was 5.  He never signed my birth certificate in fear of having to pay child support.  He drank like a fish and would come home at odd hours of the night, high on god knows what.  A very vivid memory of him is when I walked in our apartment to him beating my mother, putting a telephone cord around her neck to strangle her.  I ran to the little old lady next door and called 911.  My mother was for the most part fine, physically.  Funny that I don't remember much else about him.

Growing up I slowly forgot about him.  Only once did he break in our house, I was maybe 8.  We found him passed out drunk, a pickle jar filled with beer next to him. Years went by without as much as a phone call or card from him until he called me twice in college - usually at 1 am, not sounding quite right, crying out apologies. And at that point I was over it.  I surprisingly don't feel bitter or sad, just over it.  It was the best decision my mom could have made to leave him, so many years ago.

But recently his ghost has resurfaced.  My forgive-all (but really hoping for money and/or emotional compensation) mother found his number and told him I was pregnant.  He cried to her, telling her he was such a loser and not a day went by he didn't think of me and my sister.  He claims he has been sober seven years.  Now he's calling me.  Three times total in the last three weeks, each time leaving a message begging me to call him.  I need to talk.  I heard about the baby.  He sounds vaguely old with slurred and somewhat dysfunctional speech.  I suppose that's what years of alcohol and drug abuse does.

After my initial talk with my mother regarding how upset I was she did this, I still feel oddly over it.  In a  sense I feel bad for him; he didn't need to know.  If he is sober, it must be hard.  But I'm nearing thirty years old ... is that really a time for second chances for someone you truly don't know?  I believe in second chances, and I do forgive him.  But I don't want a relationship with him.

I want to remain strong and unhurt, yet forgiving.  So where do I go from here?

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