My Mother And The Three Fathers example essay topic

I once thought that everyday was Wednesday. I was na " ive; I was three. In my fresh, three year old mind it made sense. One day as I was enjoying Sesame Street, a question a rose in my head: I wonder what day it is? This show's so good; I never want to miss it. I asked my mother- the knower of all knowledge (isn't this what children thought of their mothers?) She replied "Wednesday".

The next day as I was playing with 'guys', (a name I gave my fisher price little people toys) I realized out of the corner of my eye that Sesame Street was on. The light bulb inside my head went on: everyday must be Wednesday. A few months passed by, everyday was still Wednesday. It wasn't until my ballet classes started on Saturday that I became curious: if Saturday is ballet day, then some of Wednesday must be in Saturday too because Sesame Street is on today. What's this? More than one day in a week?

It took me a while to adjust to Saturdays, but after having an enlightening discussion with my mother, other days of the week slowly bubbled and formed themselves at the top of my pot of possibilities. Everything seems possible when you " re new to the world. My love and appreciation for Mother Nature sprouted at the age of three. We had a well-sized backyard for my sisters and I to play our adventures in and around. We took advantage of our open back yard; I took special advantage of my proximity to a toilet whenever nature called, I simply did as I had seen our kitties do many times. I squatted my little tush, close to the ground under my favourite pine tree and marked my territory.

This seemed totally natural and normal to me. I guess I truly was a nature girl right from the start. One sad day I learned the concept of social acceptability, as I made the foolish mistake of leaving my mark in a neat little pile on the bottom step of our front porch. Our mailman was just approaching as my mother spotted my neat little gift and did what she could in her power to intercept the mailman and avoid a nasty incident. My mother was somewhat successful, but I'm sure this episode still haunts our mailman and to this day he still steps carefully as he nears our property. As luck would have it, we sometimes pass by each other on my route to school.

Oh the joys of being a mailman. The first time I tried to lie to my mother, she was more amused than she was outraged. I had been left alone in the kitchen while my mother was gardening just outside out back door. My stepfather was at work and my grandma had taken my sisters Caitlin and Sarah out to the movies. I was three, and alone in the kitchen, supplied with bread, a knife and a jar of peanut butter, dangerous ingredients for a curious girl.

I thoroughly spread the peanut butter on my slices of bread. Just as I was about to close the jar up, again, that light in my head started to flash. I began to spread the peanut butter over the counter, and then slowly I made my ways down the front of the counter. I even continued onto the chair I was standing on. I was about to reach the floor when my mother caught me red handed. Thoughtlessly, the first words that came out of her mouth created the form of a question "Cairis, who did this?" There I was standing in the kitchen, knife in hand with peanut butter on my chubby cheeks, trying to formulate the best solution to this predicament.

Does she think I didn't do it? Let's go with that then, but who, who did this? "Caitie... Sarah... you did it mommy!" She smiled at me, realizing she had brought that upon herself.

We both laughed it off as I licked my fingers clean of mischief, but I let her clean up my mess. As a child, the memories with my biological father seemed only to exist in the summer time. My dad reminds me of warm weather. Maybe he felt more motivated in the summer to drive to Georgetown to pick us up, or maybe the summer just felt right to be with him. If he did make the attempt to fulfill his promise of taking us for the weekend, most of the time he came on Saturday and was one to two hours late. We were lucky if he even came at all.

It was depressing being his child, but I don't think Caitlin and I realized this until we were older. The best feeling in the world was watching my dad's maroon coloured mini-van pull up in front of 14 Draper St. We would rush our excited bodies down the stairs yelling "D d", our smiles never failed. He'd wrap us in his arms and kiss us on our cheeks, as we inhaled the smell of his Craven A cigarettes. The smell seemed appealing to us, it was of a time when cigarettes meant nothing more to us than the scent of our father. When we did spend a night with our dad, he was the best to us. He would allow Caitlin and I to walk to 'the store', all by ourselves, to purchase as much candy that our sweet tooth's could chew and our pockets could carry; candy our mother would never let us have.

Caitlin and I felt independent and even though we couldn't label this feeling at the time, looking back on it now we can both agree that this was our first experience with the feeling of liberation. Just before bedtime our dad would give us his over-sized t-shirts for us to sleep in. They too, had the smell of dad. Our bedroom was the newly renovated attic my dad made for our weekend visits.

(That's what he told us, but I have this feeling it was for our sister Rheanna considering she moved all of her belongings up to it) He was always one to be working on projects around the house. The attic's walls and ceiling were made especially for us to write on. We would write notes back and forth, stories, or the names of the boys we had crushes on. Although the attic was a special place for us, Caitlin and I have sometimes thought that the size of the attic represented the amount of space that our dad had for us in his life.

The most traumatic episode we ever encountered with our dad used to constantly play back over and over in my head. Caitlin and I had made plans with our dad for a weekend visit, my mother thought differently. Before she had reached the door, Caitie and I had already let him in. She simply said, "you don't give us child support, you don't see your children". They argued back and forth until it became physical and some how our father had ended up behind our locked door. My father tried to force himself in and he eventually broke open the door.

To this day that piece remains absent. Our distressed mother called the police and when the tall man in an army suit arrived, our older sister Sarah took us upstairs to remove us from this upsetting situation. We could hear our father crying, pleading for my mother to let us go with him. The sounds of his saddened heart only made our cries louder. Things were finally worked out and Sarah ended coming back to his house in Toronto with us. That was the most intense episode I ever witnessed, but believe me, there were some that were almost as extreme.

My father, although he certainly attempted fatherhood, was not successful. Caitlin and I truly have been scarred by his negligence. He was young when he had us, and I feel that he had his priorities backwards when we were children, but in my experience, age does not necessarily define one's maturity. In the case of my father, his rugged beard, and wrinkled skin was misleading. As I see it now, he was just as much a child as Caitlin and I were.

Before I continue, I must make it clear that I have two families, my mother's side and my father's side. I am currently living and have been with my mother Susan, my stepfather Chris and seven siblings for almost 19 years. I have two older sisters; Sarah and Caitlin and also three younger sisters; Phaidra, Lilly and Estelle, and to his luck, a younger brother named Rowan. All of these siblings are from my mother and the three fathers she had us with. Caitlin is my only full sister and younger siblings, along with Sarah are my half siblings. It seems wrong to say this because a name should not be one to label the type of relationship we all share with each other.

These are my own flesh and bloods that have been in my life for 19 years. Whether or not we have different fathers, we are all family and this is truly all that matters. This is my family I grew up with. My father's side has always been distant. That's not to say that I love or care for them any different, but our relationship has consisted of weeks and some times almost a year without even speaking. They " re still my family; they " ve unfortunately been limited to visits and phone calls due to the lack of effort from our father.

I'm not pointing any fingers at the cause of this misfortune; Rheanna, Olivia, Gabriel and now Elliot are just as precious as the family I live with now. After my father had Caitlin and I, a few years down the road he married Connie, his first wife and had Rheanna and Olivia with her. My sisters lived with our father, and I secretly resented them for that. I don't remember seeing many pictures of Caitlin and I around the house. I used to hate looking at the fridge at my dad's house because it was covered with drawings and letters that Rheanna and Olivia had given to our dad. There were always new pictures of them on the fridge, and a story to go along with them.

These frustrations though, were never at the top of my head, I was so young that I didn't know how to care or express my feelings of bitterness. Being their older sister was such a climax in my weekend visits with them. I felt so honoured that they wanted to be with me every breathing moment I was there. I would eat, play and have slumber parties with them. I was new at being a big sister, but they knew how to recognize me as their sister. I was on a high every time I was at their house.

When my father moved to Nova Scotia for a movie he was shooting, brought along his partner Shelly of three years who was pregnant with his first boy, soon to be named Gabriel. After visiting his house there, my mind began to open up to the possibility of moving. After Gabriel was born, I did just that. I moved to Windsor, Nova Scotia for the second semester of my grade nine year. It was an overnight decision that was driven by the fight I had had with my mother (who I thought was evil at that time). It was a life-changing excursion that I had been able to pursue for the first time.

I lived with my father Ian, Shelly and my new brother Gabriel. I loved being able to see my dad every day, not to mention live with our family. I spent hours with Gabriel on a daily basis. I wanted him to get to know me, Cairis, as his older sister. I wanted him to breathe me in, to get use to me being with him every day. I was given the responsibility of taking care of him on days Shelly was busy, or when both she and my dad went out for the night.

In the middle of July, a week before I was going to move back to Ontario, my sisters left for their two-week vacation at summer camp. They had recently moved into our house in Windsor, so I was able to live with them as sisters for a short period of time. Our five-hour road trip to their camp was exactly that, five hours. No one really spoke and I started to regret even coming. They didn't seem to appreciate my company, but then again, I'm sure they didn't realize that would have been the last time they could see me before I moved. When we finally arrived at their camp.

I had been nicotine less for five hours but was excited to be with them for their first time there, but they were so caught up in the excitement that before I had even spoken a word to them, Rheanna and Olivia hopped out of the 'woody' and took off; My dad behind them, carrying their bags. I assumed they were coming back to say goodbye, but when my dad returned alone, I felt empty. It was a lonely drive home and a slap in the face that even when I attempt to better our relationship, it can't just be a one-way procedure. Nor does it take a car ride to boost their interest in me. That was three years ago though, I have been back to visit several times since then.

Our concern for the improvement in the family's relationship has become aware to all of us. Although we " re not doing everything in our power to make it the best, we " re working with what we are doing. I feel happier now. I feel like a big sister that's being looked up to again. It's hard to believe that my sister Caitlin and I used to hate each other.

I'm sure we " re not the only pair of sisters that have overcome our immaturity; that's exactly what we did, matured. We both recognized that we had similar qualities and characteristics that brought balance and friendship. Soul sisters had sprouted from our vocabulary, so we brought it's meaning to life. The Christmas of 1998 was the first official holiday Caitlin and I had spent with our father; every year before this one Christmas was spent at my mother's house; no exceptions. It was the years of empty memories and unspent Christmas's that provided Caitie and I with the opportunity to share Christmas with our father.

We had a difficult time getting down to the city, but in the end, our hectic travel was well worth our outcome. Caitlin and I were so used to our traditional Christmas at our mother's that we didn't know what to expect from this. Making my father smile and watching him inhale his four daughters in the same room, for such a meaningful event, made me realize that I had never consumed such a warm feeling. Caitlin and I had brought such joy to our father with our physical being. He made us feel beautiful. My dad and Shelly left on Boxing Day for a Christmas party, which left Caitlin and I alone at their house for a few hours until our parents came to pick us up.

We bustled around with our gifts and spent most of our time listening to the new 'Mase' cd Caitlin had given me. We had picked out our favourite song and continuously listened to it, laughing about it the whole time. The verses "if you had twenty-four hours to live just think where would you go? What would you do? Who would you screw? And who would you want to notify?

Or would your ass deny that your ass about to die?" was the highlight of our night. We would each take turns imitating Mase, until one of us fell to the floor laughing. Eventually time crept up on us, so we decided to go outside to enjoy our last cigarette together until our parents came to the house to pick us up. Unfortunately Caitlin and I were so caught up in our music that we forgot to unlock the door before leaving the house.

When the door shut behind us, we were shut out from our bags, gifts and a warm fireplace. Instead we were outside alone in the cold with only one thing keeping our spirits high. Mase. We sat on the front porch smoking our voices away and patiently awaiting the arrival of our tardy parents in the dead of the cold night. Caitlin and I seem to behold the power to create humour out of any situation.

Sometimes when humour seems to be the only way you can escape from an emotional roller coaster. On the day of Kevin's funeral, there were no words to express how any of us felt. Maybe it was more to the fact that none of us really knew what to say. Caitlin and I had some how managed to escape from the disheartening faces and quiet conversations to have a moment with ourselves. We shared short conversations to reminisce and reflect upon the loss of Kevin, a wonderful friend and big brother to us. We spoke of the viewing the day before and agreed that Kevin's brother Tommy had similar facial features that reminded us of Kevin (and later that day we would soon come to realize that he was very attractive).

We were trying to imagine ourselves in the places of Kevin's siblings, Cindy and Tommy, standing in the reception line greeting friends and family of theirs. I couldn't visualize myself trying to display my thanks and appreciation for such an unfortunate occurrence. To lighten our moment up, Caitlin and I lit up cigarettes and started small talk. Unnoticeably, our family slowly crept their way over to us, disrupting what was a time for us to fall back on each other (and smoke with out the feeling of guilt).

It was my mother, my sisters Phaidra and Estelle with our little brother Rowan. I was so irritated that I quickly snapped and spoke with a serious, persuasive voice "Phaidra, could you please take buck-teeth and mullet back to the car?" Suddenly, a burst of laughter a rose from the hearts of us, the saddened, and even tears of satisfaction formed in our eyes. Estelle and Rowan didn't appreciate their swiftly produced nicknames, but I could tell that the rest of us enjoyed the refreshing giggle. What I know was malicious at the time, only seemed to help us create and enjoy a moment of laughter, a time to take a break from our cold day. I understood that it was a cruel thing to speak; considering we were at a funeral but it seemed to take the steal thoughts of death from our heads (and a stirred a good laugh in our stomachs).

I've tried to imagine myself living without my ten siblings, but the picture isn't that clear. When I try to explain to those who ask about my family I receive gasps of "oh my, it must be insane living with such a big family" but truth is that the process is natural and never really feels insane at all. It's all I know. Our family is a growing tree. Suffice to say that the family unit grows and adjusts as an organic composite of lives.

We all help each other to grow. The babies are looked after by the mother; the toddlers are cared for by their elder siblings and thus the growing continues. Especially in times of grief, your family are the ones you need to have with you. Their physical touch, or the sound of their voices can almost always be the cure during times of distress. Being one of the daughters that was entitled to being a role model, or a shoulder to cry on, I felt at some times I was not the best of help but more like I was abusing my role as a big sister. Sometimes I am a voiceless in serious or sensitive conversations.

I have yet to start project 'talk-a-lot', but if you " re looking for a person to escape with, I am always free for a laugh. Although it was a responsibility of watching over the young ones, assisting in the nurturing of my siblings, I would feel privileged that my parents trusted me enough to take on parent-like responsibilities. One of the wonderful results of growing up in a large family is the constant desire to grow. As a child you are ever trying to grow your vocabulary to communicate with your siblings, and then crawl faster, toddle further, understand games better all in order to participate on the level of your older siblings. This effect advances the learning process to such an outcome that it is very apparent in the academic and hypothetical abilities of many of the children in bigger families (not just my own) Even the older siblings are learning an incredible life skill in learning to nurture and care for younger children.

The first time I became physical with my mother, I was fifteen years old. I was what society labelled as a disturbed teenager, who thought they were damned by their parents. In his case, I can agree on feeling distressed but I have never felt like my parents were out to get me. We were simply and still are different human beings with different opinions about the process of a teenager growing up in a world of questions and concerns that could seriously change the path of development. My issues came varying from the mental abuse I had suffered from both my mother and father or the loss of my godmother, to my hectic living environment with my family. In this case, I was a fifteen year old that had the desire to drink a six of Blue beer in the parking lot at the bottom of my street.

It was foolish of me to think for one moment that my mother wouldn't find out about this particular event. While I was outside having a cigarette on my front curb, my mother had decided to transform herself into an investigator (one of her many talents). She had found my supply of beer and coolers in my room, and removed them without my consent. Not that I had a very strong reason for me to have alcoholic beverages in my room, but I was an inexperienced teenager trying the lenience my mother out for the first time. I think this was the first time that feeling of hatred and power collided inside of my troubled mind. I couldn't seem to find an alternative solution in fighting for the retrieval of my alcohol.

I tried to do everything in my physical power and I truly believe that if it wasn't for a friend who rescued me from such an awful event that I might have done some serious damage to my mother. In a heated moment of fury, anger and pain the thought or effects of your outcome don't seem to faze you. It's like their mentally blocked because there is a wall of thoughts, which contain intense moments of conflicts gathered from all throughout your life; standing there, just fighting off all the positive thoughts that try to break past your wall of negativity. In my case, all of these feelings were of my mother and our unresolved issues that we had encountered during the span of my life as her daughter. It's very challenging trying to articulate how my feelings of love and hate for this woman, my mother, actually feel inside my body.

There is a constant war-taking place within my self; I seem to be trying to fight off the influence of my mother. She, like everyone else, has both damaging and constructive characteristics. Some of these I have all ready found within me, and others I can feel forming. Maybe in the process of others coming across this discovery, there are hopeful results, but in my situation I feel like an innocent animal that has been crept up on by its pray.

My biggest fear has some how managed to find it's way inside of me; and a way out may be questionable. Once it's in there, it can start affecting all parts of your existence with in days. I think the worst part about having your mother grow inside of you, is having others recognize she's in there too. It's no longer a secret; I've started to become like my mother.

During the years of my childhood, I don't think my mother had much control over me, especially not of my eating habits. As a child, you would almost always find me with my hands and mouth occupied with a delicious treat I had found myself. I used to find pleasure in licking butter off my fingers, until some one caught me, pinched my cheeks and said "oh Cairis, you " re so cute". No one seemed to find my eating habits a problem.

Was this because I was only a child, and maybe my family thought that it wouldn't affect me later on in life? Or was it because my family was too indolent to try and stop me from my bizarre eating behaviour. Whatever the case, I now find myself, an almost nineteen-year-old swallowing apple cider vinegar pills with every meal, concerned about my body image. I have the genes of my mother: large hips, large breasts and dancer legs.

I am starting to doubt that your metabolism can ever change. I lie in bed some mornings recuperating from my sleep; I think about what I ate the night before and fuss about it my covers with disappointment. Then I'll think about the breakfasts to come, and I look forward to food again (I usually do). The immoderation of my food intake as a child has severely influenced the lack of control I now have as a young adult. Although I have been known to eat healthy, some times my sweet tooth gets the best of me and allows me to indulge in desserts without the feeling of guilt, although it always seems to find me in the morning. Most mornings I remove myself from my bed, a struggle most of the time, but I get out.

I'll stand in front of my mirror, naked, and run my hands over my body, feeling the curves and contour of my body. I take deep breaths, inhaling who I am, as beautiful woman uncovering the many appealing features of my body. Even though I know I am beautiful, I can still see my mother in me and her silhouette is still a growing part. I can't help but notice all of the stuff I have while sitting on my bed, stoned from my afternoon dube e. I have so many belongings; shelves stocked with bottles, sprays, creams and a cactus.

I have drawers full of art supplies, hair dye, hats and mittens. My room is over flowing with years of pictures, recycled paper and hand-me-down clothes. Only one person comes to mind when I sit in astonishment. I am picking up my mothers fault of not being able to let things go. I am a saver, a keeper for life and I can't help but hold my mother responsible for this. Our house is filled wall to wall with baskets of clothes, washed, waiting the day they make their way to their owner, shelves of books about art history and architecture.

Boxes of movies, some even still unseen. Our house is the result of an un-prioritized list of business to be finished. I have a lifetime supply of items just waiting for their departure from my room, but sadly to say, I don't think I will ever part with any of these things. I don't know what it'd be like, letting a piece of me go, and to be quite honest I am afraid. If there's anyone who likes to sleep, it's my family.

Even my cats have a sleeping problem; we " re both a bad influence on each other. I can't help but notice that all of us have an obstacle in the way of our waking routine. I must touch on the fact that my mother had been known to stay awake until the wee hours of the morning and then have an afternoon awakening. This method she lives by started when my sisters and I were of younger ages and were unaware that one-day, we too, would be women of the night. When I was a child walking home for lunch it would be a disappointment to find our mother still in bed, and our stomachs lunch less. We would then try to find an easy-make lunch of some kind to stop the noises from our tummies.

At times our mother would awake to find that we had made ourselves lunch, sometimes making her incensed that we had used our stove, but as we saw it we were displaying our level of independence at a young age. Our only concern was eating a lunch and returning to school on time; something I still have trouble doing now. My relationship with my mother has definitely had a turning point. I have always thought that being honest is the best quality you could find in a relationship, and so with my mother and I, this is what I share with her.

I know she appreciates my openness, and I too appreciate her spirit of patience with me. She and I now have an understanding relationship. I think she treats me like an adult that hopefully in return we continue sharing the need of respect for each other. My mother has recently started to display some qualities of mine, and I am starting to rethink who is growing inside of whom.