Only Child, Mother of 3

Only Child, Mother of 3

By Erin Morrison-Fortunato

I am an only child and, while there are many advantages to being an only child, having a built in support network of relatives who share the same home, parenting and life experiences, and genetics as you isn't one of them.

I've been asked why, as an only child, I chose to have three children of my own.  Here are the answers.           

Quiet

My Childhood: I had my own room and lived in a home with two adults. There was plenty of quiet.

My Children’s Childhood: Every word spoken by our children is screamed at the top of their lungs. Even if I am sitting directly adjacent to my daughter, with my ear in plain view, she will yodel her message as if communicating a dire warning to a small German town far from our home in Western New York. 

They scream when they are happy. They scream when they are sad. They scream when they are tired. They scream when they are mad. They scream at each other and, seemingly, at no one at all. In my children’s minds, there is no situation inappropriate for screaming or crying.

It goes without saying that one of them is always crying.

Independence

My Childhood: I was, by necessity, independent. My best friend lived a few houses away and my parents played with me, but I was entirely able to entertain myself. As a result, I’ve never felt awkward going to a movie or sitting at a café on my own.

Always having had ready access to time alone during my childhood ruined me for motherhood.  Now, as a working mother of three, I crave time alone with a passion I would otherwise reserve for Ryan Gosling. 

My Children’s Childhood: None of these children want to be alone. Ever. They want to be entertained, petted, and fawned over without exception. When I am very clearly in the middle of completing tasks essential to the everyday functioning of our home, my children peek around corners at me, doe-eyed, pouty lipped and whining: “Mommy, will you read me a book?”  Masters of the guilt trip. Clearly, I’d rather play than chore, but our home will cease to operate if I don’t do what I need to do. Not to mention, I have personally birthed two playmates for each of my children. Play with them!  

Attention

My Childhood:  I received all of the attention I could ever possibly have desired. I had no one with whom to compete. I was always the cutest, best behaved kid in the house, no matter what horribly awkward stage I may have been mired in at that moment.

My Children’s Childhood: They have to share, which teaches them the valuable lesson that they don’t get everything they want just because they want it. But, leads to some nasty sibling rivalry.

What red-blooded lady hasn’t imagined a group of jealous people arguing over who will get to touch her? I just didn’t imagine that that group would include an 8-year-old, 5-year-old, and 3-year-old. I can only accommodate two of three children in my arms, so the third is left to crawl around on my belly, jamming his or her elbows into my flesh while whining that it’s his or her turn for an arm. It’s relaxing and enjoyable.

Aggression

My Childhood: I would wrestle with my dad, but the moment that I was even lightly bruised, I would surrender in tears and retreat into a book. 

I have a distinct, traumatizing memory which involves my cousins (three siblings) teasing me by playing monkey in the middle with my special blankie. I, of course, was the monkey. Unused to this type of teasing, I reacted as if I were being water boarded. 

My Children’s Childhood: As I watch my children rolling around on the floor, seemingly strangling each other with various WWE death holds, my heart races. 

“Is this normal? Should we stop them?” I inquire of my husband, who grew up with a brother. 

“Nah…they’re fine,” he replies nonchalantly.

“But, someone is gonna get hurt,” I say anxiously.

“That’s kinda the point,” he reassures.

And, inevitably, someone does incur a minor injury and comes running for hugs and healing mommy kisses. But, inevitably, he or she rejoins the fray swinging. And, I return to observing, holding a death grip on the arms of my chair to prevent my refereeing their fun.

LOVE

My Childhood: There is absolutely no doubt that I was loved and hugged and kissed and appreciated and cared for. I was my parents’ first priority in every day and decision.

My Children’s Childhood: There is absolutely no doubt that my children are loved and hugged and kissed and appreciated and cared for. They are their parents’ first priority in every day and decision. And, they are so very fortunate to have their siblings to love (if not always like) and by whom to be loved. They will understand (and commiserate about) one another’s childhoods in a way that no one else can.  They have a built-in loud, aggressive, jealous, co-dependent, loving support system. The worst and greatest gift I have ever given my children, their siblings. 

Movin' On Up

            We were 23-years-old when we purchased our first house.  Reasonably, 23-year-olds should not be allowed to make decisions that involve tens of thousands of dollars as many 23-years-olds believe they know so much more than they actually know about life. 

We, of course, had our life completely planned and were certain that these plans would proceed without a hitch.  We bought our house based on three important criteria: 1) It was located in our hometown.  2) It was over 100-years-old, full of gumwood trim, hardwood floors, and leaded glass.  Charming!  3) It had three bedrooms, one for us and one for each of the two children we, according to our life plan, were scheduled to procreate at ages 28 and 30 respectively.

            Fast-forward ten years: We, in fact, did have two children.  Our son arrived right on schedule, a few months after we turned 28.  Baby number two, our darling daughter, arrived, as expected, when I was 30. Baby number three…oops?  Wait?  Baby number three?  Yup.  Baby number three arrived when we were 33, and her arrival forced us to move our 5-year-old son into a room with our 3-year-old daughter.  Not so bad, right?  Lots of siblings share rooms.  It would teach them to compromise, to be selfless.  Well, that’s a steaming pile of BS.

            It was this experiment in insanity that first sparked the unquenchable desire for more space, a bigger house.

Sharing a room taught my children ingenuity, the ingenuity to come up with new and interesting ways to torture each other and, in the process, their parents.  They fought about every little thing, purposefully pestering each other.  At bedtime, my daughter would threaten her brother into getting out of bed to do her will, ordering him to fetch her water or to call mom and dad upstairs for extra kisses.  In this way, she would get what she desired, but he would take the fall for being out of bed after “curfew”.  If he didn’t comply with her requests, she would sing just loudly enough to keep him from falling to sleep, but just quietly enough to prevent us from hearing her.  She will be a great addition to the CIA’s enhanced interrogation unit.  

            Despite their whining and griping and complaining and bedtime antics, we felt blessed to have a home that kept us warm and safe.  I felt guilty for wanting more.  We already had so much more than so many others.  Until, that is, the house didn’t feel quite as safe anymore. 

Despite my hubby and I working our asses off to keep our house running, we couldn’t stay ahead of the tasks it entailed.  The plumbing was slowly disintegrating, spilling water through the ceiling of our kitchen each time we gave our kids a bath.  We briefly contemplated bathing them outside in the kiddie pool, but thought it might be an unreasonable plan as we live in upstate New York, and winters tend to get chilly here. 

The basement stairs were crumbling, making it unsafe to carry the overwhelming loads of laundry that a family of five produces up and down to be washed.  I would say a little prayer each time I had to venture into the laundry room: “Dear God, please allow me to safely make my way on these stairs as it is essential that I have clean panties to wear to work tomorrow.  Amen.” 

Our two big mutts, who had once reigned as prince and princess of the house, had been relegated to living on the porch.  The shedding, the muddy paws, the tendency to chew on the beautiful gumwood meant that they were a burden the house couldn’t carry.  They were still cared for and fed and exercised, but they were separate from our family.  I have a vivid memory of my 2-year-old daughter standing on a kitchen chair, peering into the porch through the door, waving excitedly at the dogs, as if she were at the polar bear exhibit at the zoo. “Mama! Look Mama! Doggies. Hi doggies!”

Our postage stamp of a backyard wasn’t much use to our kids because it clearly territorially marked by the dogs.  We couldn’t let the kids play outside without first doing an extensive poo check or run the real risk of them rolling around in filth. The kids weren’t all that interested in playing in the backyard anyways. Turns out a yard full of dog-dug holes and pee-burnt grass isn’t that appealing a play area.

Our living room was overrun with Legos and Matchbox cars and board books and Barbie dolls and baby swings.  There was no place in the house that felt open.  Every room was cramped.  Eventually, we got rid of our beautiful oak table, the cabinet filled with my grandmother’s lovely china, and the buffet we had once covered in appetizers and bottles of wine when guests came for game nights, turning our dining room into a play room.  When my son saw the transformation for the first time, he raised his arms in a gesture of victory and screamed, “YESSSSSS!!!!!”  I, on the other hand, posted on Facebook a picture of his triumphant moment captioned, “Our dining room is gone. We’ll have you over for dinner in 2023.” 

            Worst of all was the mess.  Although it felt as if we did nothing but chores, the house was never clean enough.  There wasn’t any room to move, let alone to clean.  I couldn’t effectively dust under the bed or the couch, because there was no room to move the bed or the couch.  The best I could manage was to lay flat on my stomach, desperately waving the Swiffer mop around, hoping I was catching the dust bunnies and stray socks. 

The once beautifully painted walls were now stained with sippy cup spray and flecks of spaghetti sauce.  The once bright and shiny ceramic tiles in the kitchen were constantly covered in muddy footprints and random food smears.  Ahhhhh…the naiveté of choosing white tiles for a kitchen floor.  I look back with amused scorn at my pre-mommy self.

I felt embarrassed of the home I kept.

The first word out of my mouth when we toured our new home was, “Shit!”  It was spacious, had bedrooms for each of our three children.  There was a play room and a double yard with a humongous Beech tree perfect for climbing and playing beneath.  There was a kennel for the dogs. and we would have a place other than the basement for our dining room furniture to occupy.  There were TWO bathrooms.  TWO!!!!!  The washer and dryer were on the first floor.  I reacted with “Shit!” because we hadn’t been planning a move so soon.  The “Shit!” was because I was in love with the life I could envision my family living in this house.

Since moving into our ‘forever home,’ I haven’t had any regrets.  I am well aware that the paint will stain, that, eventually, a pipe will burst or the roof will need replacing. I am also aware that we are a happier family now that we have room to spread out, space to move and play.  And, surprisingly, it is easier to keep this house neat as I am able to freely move furniture and have a place for everything and everything in its place.        

We had contemplated, hemmed and hawed, perseverated, and flip-flopped on the idea of selling our “starter” house, and all it took was that “Shit!” to push us into happiness.

The Real Father

The Real Father

            They say that girls marry their fathers.  Each time that I am reminded of this saying, I thank God or fate or the universe or whoever or whatever is out there and is on my side.  I am thankful that my biological father is not my real father.      

Sweat plastered my hair against my head as I ripped off my riding helmet.  As a chubby middle-schooler, an hour on horseback in the blazing sun worked up a thirst.  I turned to my stepfather, who must have been equally parched having spent that same hour standing in that same blazing sun watching my lesson, and asked for a dollar for the vending machine.  He gladly obliged before putting me in the cab of my father’s truck, still cool with air conditioning, as he had arrived five minutes before the end of my lesson.

            Immediately upon his wheels hitting the road, my father turned on me.  “You will never again ask that man for money when I am there. I am your father, and you will ask me for what you need. I will provide what you need,” he insisted in an angry, yet eerily monotone and controlled voice.

            Even at the age of 12, I understood his hypocrisy.

            Just months earlier, my biological father had withdrawn all financial support for my extracurriculars, withdrawn support for anything beyond that which he was required by law to pay.  My mother, a school nurse, was far from rich, and horseback riding is an expensive hobby.  While I took up mucking stalls and watering horses to defray costs, my stepfather, an elementary school teacher, stepped up to help with the costs. 

Now, as I was trapped inside this metal box with a raging, jealous man, I knew that he had never been and would never be, my real father.

            To the world outside, my biological father was handsome, intelligent, driven, and focused.  To me, he was frightening, cold, unforgiving, resentful, and inappropriate.

            My mother divorced my biological father while she was pregnant: unquestionably, the best parenting decision she ever made.  When I was 8-months-old, she began dating a teacher at the school where she was the nurse.  He became a constant presence in my life.

            My biological father nicknamed me ‘Sports Fan,’ a ridiculous moniker as I couldn’t care less about sports.  This misnomer became representative of our relationship: he didn’t know me and didn’t care to know the real me.  He wanted me to be the science minded, outdoorsy son he had wished for.  He quizzed me on environmental trivia and math facts.  He forbid television.  He took me camping in the dreary, muddy, spooky woods, where I felt cold and uncomfortable and lonely.  He taught me to shoot a gun, which terrified me. 

            My stepfather nicknamed me ‘Bunsarunski,’ a nonsense word that has no real meaning, but, somehow, fits me to a tee.  He let me win at checkers, wrestled with me, showed me magic tricks, and taught me to ride a bike.

            My biological father was married to my stepmother, a lovely, intelligent, and successful woman, for the greater part of my early childhood.  She was stable part of my life.  And, then, she was gone.  They divorced, and she was gone, forbidden from saying goodbye.  There were other women, women to whom I was introduced and grew attached before they mysteriously and confusingly disappeared.

            My stepfather was consistent: always there, always reliable.  Because I am an only child, I craved family.  My stepfather is one of eight children.  And, his big, warm, loving, loud family provides tradition and stability and joy in my life and the lives of my children.

            My biological father had expectations of me to which I could never live up.  On my thirteenth birthday, my biological father told me we would celebrate with dinner.  Instead, he drove me to a secluded road in a park and lectured me about my weight, confirming all of those fears buried in my head by the bullies at school who told me I was ugly, unworthy of love, disgusting.  Then, he drove me home and dropped me off.

            I refused to do it anymore.  I cut myself off, cut him out of my life.

            A real father is there to chase a toddler around with a puke pot after dosing her with ipecac syrup because she ate her grandfather’s shoe polish.  He’s there to pick her up when she crashes her bike, destroying her knees and elbows.  He’s there to take care of the bunny his daughter once thought was cute, but eventually abandoned.  He sits through every performance of every school musical.  He patiently teaches her to drive a stick shift while she destroys the transmission of his car.  He sticks by her mother while she battles breast cancer and recovers from a mastectomy.  He walks his daughter down the aisle.  He creates a slide show to embarrass her at the reception.  He helps her to paint every room in her new home.  He cries when his daughter tells him she is expecting.  He comes to the hospital at 3 a.m. to meet his first grandchild.  He is her children’s grandfather, their proud Papa.

            My stepfather is my real father.

If Life Were Like T.V.

If Life Were Like T.V.

            I wouldn’t want to live it, that’s for damn sure.  My God, the horrible things that happen in the lives of these television characters is unfathomable.  How can these characters possibly survive the horror show that is their lives?  They are struck, demolished by a tidal wave, but manage to get up, only to be crushed once again by a tsunami.

            Take, for example, the cast of characters in “Grey’s Anatomy.”  Meredith Grey, the enigmatic protagonist, has suffered immensely.  Just off the top of my head, poor Meredith has been publically humiliated by the love of her life, lost two of her best friends (one to death and one to career suicide), had to steady a bomb inside a man’s body, had a miscarriage, had her husband stalked and shot, discovered an unknown sister, mistakenly killed her step-mother, had her adopted daughter ripped from her care, lost her discovered sister in a plane crash which also crippled her brain surgeon husband’s hand, and, currently has broken up with her longtime “person”/best friend Christina.  And, those are just the trials and tribulations I can remember off of the top of my head.  I’m sure that there are innumerable dramas that I cannot. 

            Seriously?  Ok, Meredith Grey has had her share of good luck as well.  She’s a successful surgeon on the board of the hospital at which she works.  She’s had LOTS of great sex.  But, imagine living her life?  Imagine never being able to enjoy a moment because there is a black shadow looming, looming over every day.  For every happiness, there will be an equal or greater tragedy in reaction. 

            Take, for a second example, Olivia Pope of “Scandal,” not coincidentally a show also created by the fabulous Shonda Rimes.  Poor, poor Olivia!  No matter how intelligent or powerful or driven or beautiful or benevolent she is, she just can’t get out of her own way.  Despite her intelligence, she starts an affair with an incredibly powerful politician, who just happens to be running for president.  And, despite her better judgment, continues the torrid affair into his presidency.  Her love also inspires her to defraud the entire country out of their right to a fair election.  Her associates are assorted criminals, some worse than others.  Her father is the head of a top secret spy agency used to torture and kill assorted national security risks.  She is constantly scared for her life and the lives of her loved ones. 

            Again, some good luck.  Again, career success and lots of good sex.  But, how much happiness can sex and money buy if you’re constantly having to use both the sex and money to fix life-threatening problems?

            For me, it’s the drama.  And, unfortunately, I consider myself an expert in drama, both personally, as a former teenage girl, and professionally, as a teacher of high school.  Sure, I’ve had my own teenage girl drama, created some of it, sometimes purposefully.  I’ve welcomed it into my life.  Also, unfortunately, I’ve created drama as an adult.  Probably subconsciously, but also with some purpose.  It fulfilled some weird need in me.  That adult drama had consequences.  Those consequences taught me lessons, they changed me.  I’ve made different choices as a result of lessons learned.  I’ve made a conscious decision to avoid drama in my personal future.

            But, the protagonists of these rom-com-dramas never seem to learn their lessons.  They fail to learn from their mistakes, to change their course of action to avoid the drama. 

            And, I say, thank God for that!  What fun would that be?!?!  These shows, they provide me an outlet, a safe way to indulge in delicious drama without hurting myself or anyone I love.  I can roll around gleefully in their mud and shit, without actually dirtying myself.  So, thank you for the drama Ms. Grey and Ms. Pope.  I don’t envy your lives, but I sure am glad that you fictitiously live them so that I can wallow in them.

A Letter to my Youngest (and Last) Baby on her First Birthday - 11/13/13

My Dear Love,

You are the delicious frosting on the cake of our family.  And, in many ways, you are like frosting: sweet, fatty, and totally edible.  We could eat you up, you are just so cute and smiley!

After having your sister, many people commented to me that, now that we had a boy and a girl, we could be done.  But, we didn't feel done.  I still felt a strong longing for another child.  Thank God we did, because you have made our family complete.

You are a sweet, gentle, and loving soul.  You are joyful and happy.  You rarely cry.  Your smile brings sunshine into our lives, even in the toughest moments.
 
You have brought cohesion to our family.  You bring out the very best in Big Sissy.  She is the best big sister, constantly making you smile and giggle, comforting you when you are upset, and helping to care for you. She puts you first because she adores you and you adore her. Big Brother plays with you, constantly amazed by your new talents and skills.  He loves to point out the new developments you're making.  He helps us tremendously by keeping an eye on you, keeping you safe, by being your big brother, your protector.  You always have a smile for your big man, daddy man.  And, I will one day explain to you how nursing you, the quiet moments we spend together snuggling and bonding, helped me to feel whole again.
And, still, when we have our snuggle time together, I am at my most relaxed and natural as a mother.

Darling little Baby Cakes, please keep that cheery, loving, smiley disposition that reminds us to disregard the small stuff and focus on that fact that our family is so fortunate.

You, my darling, are so fortunate to have a loving community of family and friends who will surround and support you throughout your life.  You truly are the frosting on the cake of our family.  We are so glad that we get to have our cake, and eat you up too!

Baby Cakes, we have so many wishes for you, so many hopes for your future.  Each night we pray for you and your sister and your brother: "Please take care of Brother and Sister and Baby. Let them have long, healthy, happy, and successful lives."  Happiness is our wish for you.  We hope that you find passions and loves.  We hope you live the life you dream of living.  We hope you are a brave, good and kind person, who impacts the world positively, leaving it better off than it was when you arrived.

As we said to Brother and Sister at their dedications, we want badly to be good parents to you, to make the right decisions that will help you to live a good life.  We know that we need to lead you by setting a good example.  We want you to be happy and healthy.  We want you to know that we will support you in the decisions that you make in your life, help you through the tough times, celebrate with you in the best times, and that our love is unconditional.

We hope that you will approach the world with an open mind and that you will stand up for what is right. We hope that you will find true friendship, true love, and true success while walking the life path that you choose.

Love,
Mommy, Daddy, Brother, and Sister

~Our Gifts to You, Baby Love~

Charlotte's Web by E.B. White: Charlotte's Web is the story of a brave spider who saves the life of her friend using her intelligence and talent.  And, although its ending is sad, the book teaches us a great lesson about the value of true friendship.  This is one of my favorite books from childhood.  I give it to you because reading will allow you to escape into many different worlds, to explore and to stretch your imagination.  It is also your ticket to a lifetime of learning.  I hope that we will one day read this book together.

Drumsticks: These represent the gift of music, an art form that has been incredibly important to both mommy and daddy.  Music has brought us joy, in both listening to it and performing it.  Drumsticks allow you to bring music and creativity with you wherever you go.  It's amazing to listen to music that has been created by others, but even more rewarding to create your own music.  I'm looking forward to teaching you how to play, so that we can create music together.  Drumsticks also help you to keep a beat.  We want them to represent your ability to move through life to your own beat.

Picture of Our Family:  This is a picture of our family.  We will always be there to help and care for each other. This picture will always remind you that, even when we are apart, our love holds us together.

The Grossest Parts of Parenthood (My Freshest Contribution to "Scary Mommy")

Here is a sample of one of the reasons that becoming a parent requires an incredibly strong stomach:

1. Baby Poop. Many of us remember the sweet, milky smell of our newborns as they cuddled against our chests.  I, too, remember this smell fondly.  A smell I remember less fondly is that of a diaper full of stinking, loose, mustard colored shit.  But, we parents do our duty (no pun intended) and change diaper after diaper full of the stuff, filling receptacles in our homes full of literal crap.

I settled my darling 2-week-old daughter onto a changing pad laid down on the ottoman in my living room.  I was prepared with wipes, diapers, ointments, and cloths to pat dry her precious little bum.  I removed her wet diaper, relieved that it contained only pee.  I gathered her tiny ankles into my hand and lifted them to clean her as she let loose a small sigh…and a jet powered stream of fecal matter that splattered across my shirt, turning it into a disgusting man’s Jackson Pollack.  Did I mention that the aforementioned stream also splattered through my hair and across the couch cushions?  How adorable!

If you like the above, please continue reading at: http://www.scarymommy.com/grossest-parts-of-parenthood/

Enjoy!