winkgirl4's Diaryland
Diary
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Ode to a Mother Hen, (resubmitted.)
I'm only adding this because I deleted it almost immediately after posting it about a month ago. I deleted it because someone called it ugly. And perhaps it is but these are still my thoughts and my expressions and they deserve to stay in my journal. If you've already read it or don't like the content, skip over it. See how easy that is? WARNING: Adult content below!!! Not for sensitive ears!!!So, what I'm about to do is create a situation where you sympathize with my sister, Kitty. Yeah, the dramatic one I've complained about in the past. -- No, no, no. Not the Paranoid Alcoholic, that's Michelle. Kitty is the Mother Hen. (I say it jokingly because, though it's sometimes annoying, we all secretly love this quality in her.) Okay, you ready? On we go. When I was twenty-one and the Mother Hen was but twenty-two, she had to have a full hysterectomy- before, mind you, she had ever had any children. After she came out of surgery, I sat and watched her sleep and I cried knowing that I would never see her pregnant. I would never place my hand on her rounded belly and feel the baby inside. I would never hold her hand as she pushed that mucus- and blood-covered creature from her body. But she would live. I poured my pathetic little heart out in that disturbingly orange hospital chair and swore that I'd never forget what it felt like to mourn for the nieces and nephews I'd never meet. It was a long sad night. (See, sympathetic already, huh? But, wait, there's more.) So, anyway, she becomes the Mother Hen. Yeah, sure, she pisses us off sometimes (I'm pretty good at that myself) and sure, sometimes you wish she just leave well enough alone. But the one thing you can count on: she's there when you need her. Which was the case with my niece- daughter to the Paranoid Alcoholic. You see, the Paranoid Alcoholic had twins (Elizabeth and Bobby) when she was fifteen and, now at thirty-four, she still hasn't decided if she might like to be a mother when she grows up. This, of course, left her children wandering around looking for parental support. All of who found it in the Mother Hen. So, The Mother Hen loves these kids. She loves their wanting ways. She takes them in when their own parents toss them out on the street at fourteen- and fifteen-years of age. She gives them money when she barely has any herself and takes care of Elizabeth when she ends up pregnant by a dark-eyed and reckless loser. The Mother Hen does everything that she can to keep Elizabeth clean during the pregnancy (despite Elizabeth's belief that drugs will help her keep thin.) After the truly beautiful baby is born, The Mother Hen gives Elizabeth and the loser a place to stay- repeatedly. Look, she�s a saint, right? Well, not really but she did a whole hell of a lot more than any of us were willing to do for this girl and she did it unconditionally. She did it with a mother's love she couldn't spend elsewhere. So, situations being what they are, the baby gets taken away from the track mark-laden girl and her felonious imbecile of a loser husband. Who do the Department of Human Services ask to take care of the child until the investigation is complete and they can determine if the baby can go home to "mommy and daddy"? Well, The Mother Hen, of course. Does she agree to it? Of course she does. Why? Well because she loves. She loves that baby and despite our best suggestions, she loves our niece. (I know, I know. I'm such a bitch. But, we'll get to that later.) Wanna know what happens next? Well that little cunt decides she wants her baby back. - Yeah, I said it. Cunt, cunt, cunt. Go ahead. Take girl points away from me but she's a cunt if ever one existed. But does she come to take the baby by herself? No. She comes with the help of the loser and his inbred brother. Does she say, "You know, Kitty, I think this is pretty damned shitty. They don't know me. They don't know my situation. They don't know how much I love my baby. I'm coming to get my child because I'm her mother and she should be with me. But, thank you for giving my daughter love and a safe home and warm clothes and cooked food and a beautiful Easter that she most certainly wouldn't have had otherwise. Thank you for loving me enough to keep my child safe." Does she say anything like that? Oh God No! This little cunt takes the baby. She allows her four-foot-tall ape of a husband and his chimp of a brother to strong arm my sister while that ingrate calls my sister a "Barren whore who steals other people's babies because she can't have any of her own because she doesn't deserve to be a mother." See what I mean? Cunt. Don't get me wrong, I understand the whole "put yourself in her crank-whore shoes" idea. Her baby was being taken away and we, as mothers, tend to get a bit defensive about that. I can even see that the little pothead was just lashing out in the only way her brain-cell-less mind could figure out how to. Great. Fine. Lovely. ...But to stab my sister in her softest, most vulnerable spot after she went out of her way to make a freak like her feel loved... nah. I ain't havin' it. Okay, yeah, so I got kinda mad and stupid and, then, I let mad and stupid drive my car to my nieces house after which I kinda, sort of threatened her. I mean, it wasn't a big threat. It wasn't like the death threats the cunt and her goons were leaving on my sister's answering machine. It was a nice, little, "it's best if you have this pertinent information" kind of threat- a "just so's you know..." kind of thing. Just a little, "If you ever...and I mean EVER talk to my sister again, I will bring the police with me so that they can watch me beat the hell out of you," sort of thing. Nothing big. Yeah, sure. It reduced my intellectual credibility a notch. I'm aware of that. I lost liberal points by acting irrationally. I know. I know. But, my sister- that can sometimes be a pain in the ass- was curled up in the fetal position crying in her bed. Nothing really solves that like the threat of a good ass kicking. What happens next? Well, can you believe it, but the police are on my doorstep talking about arresting me for assault. Nah, I didn't assault her. I didn't lay a hand on her. Hell, I didn't even raise my voice. But does she know I'm serious? She sure as hell does. After having said that, I really like being a pacifist. It's really one of my strong points.
9:25 a.m. - 2003-05-28
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