It

When my grandmother would speak of one of her nieces, she always had to tell me that the parents would tell the girl how special she was because they chose her. It bothered my grandmother a lot. I don't know whether it was on grounds of principle or being competitive, but it obviously put a bee in her bonnet.

I was exactly the opposite of this girl. I was the surprise child that changes everything about my parents' lives, and not necessarily for the better. At times I've wondered if I was someone's idea of a plan to keep my father from being drafted and sent to Vietnam. At others, if I was a hook to cement a potential marriage. I've thrown those ideas out. It was the look in my mother's eyes when she told me she knew how to take care of "it". There was a pause and then she returned to the present. The next sentence was something to the effect of, "But, now I'm glad everything turned out the way it did." It wasn't convincing.

This is not meant as a discussion of abortion. I don't want to go there. For the record, I believe abortion is wrong. Still there are times I wonder if it wouldn't have been a better idea in my case. She didn't want a kid, wasn't prepared for a kid, and didn't have a good father-figure to help her nurture a kid. It feels weird knowing I truly was a problem from the first, knowledge of me was considered very bad news. I suppose it would be different had I been raised by a mother who soon discovered her own motherly side and cherished being a mom. That didn't happen.

One phone call that went particularly badly had her sniping at me that she had friends, and she would watch her friends' children and how she could see they enjoyed spending time with their parents and doing things together, and how she didn't have that. And, she doesn't. The thought of getting together with my mother and "doing something" brings anxiety and revulsion. There's simply no enjoyment there. How could there be? The woman's known me 40-some years and has no idea who I am.

Thankfully, I didn't think to ask her if possibly *I* had felt the same way when I was a child watching other mothers with their children. But my mother would never understand this. She saw that I was fed, clothed, and had lots of nice things. To her, these are the things of a Good Mother. She doesn't see that what was missing was the specialness, the knowledge that my parents wanted *me* in their lives. It goes beyond simply wanting a child, to wanting to discover who your child is.

I've heard of a theory that says we all have an emotional bank account. People's actions deposit or withdraw on that account. My mother added precious little to my account; my father practically nothing (unless I was doing what he wanted). They had very little to withdraw before they were overdrawn.