Guys, I was born evil. At least that’s what my mother has said.
I think back on my childhood and have little to no memory of most of it. What I do have are stories I’ve been told meant to define my picture of myself and who I was as a child. The burden I was to my long-suffering parents.
I have stories of how I went on tyrannical toddler tantrums for hours at a time. Ripping wallpaper off of my walls, tearing my dresser apart, lying on my back, shrieking, and kicking the door. The door that had the lock reversed to keep me isolated in my room in the throes of my dysregulated torment. While my mother sat on the other side of the door believing that I was “possessed”. Because, y’know, I was born evil.
Considering I also have stories about my visceral reactions to loud noises and was terrified of dump trucks and was socially awkward, it’s more likely that I was/am on the spectrum. In fact, when Nathan met my mother for the first time, she asked about his autistic son. Followed up quickly with how she always suspected that I was autistic as well. Funny, since she never sought out any support for me.
Meh, that’s all neither here nor there. What you need to know is that I was born evil. mY mOtHeR sAiD sO.
This isn’t a story about how I was born evil, though. This is a story about my daughter, Nova Mira.
In the Beginning…
Thank God that Nova didn’t come before Orson, or Orson probably wouldn’t exist. Seriously, this girl was hard. The colic was absolutely unbearable and never-ending. She’s never slept well, but especially in the beginning, it was psychological torture. Just from the sheer exhaustion and misery of the colic and sleep-deprivation for all of us, Nathan actually cried one night comforting her in the nursery.
I have never once seen my husband cry. His daughter brought him to tears, though.
There were LOTS of tears, and anyone with a colicky baby understands why. I tried everything. Tummy massages around the clock, side-lying nursing, bicycling her legs, even gripe water or simethicone drops (which, yes, I know the science on those is sus…but I was desperate). Absolutely nothing helped.
Let’s Go Back a Moment
I prayed for my daughter. Specifically, I asked God that I would have a daughter that would test me. I prayed for a daughter and the chance to break the cycle of mother-daughter dysfunction that has plagued my family. Dysfunction that had a mother saying that her daughter was born evil. I prayed for a challenge and the strength to rise to the occasion.
Maybe not in those exact terms…who in their right mind prays for a test? But the overall sentiment was there.
And, boy, did He answer my prayer. But not before He gave me my sweet, tender boy Orson. I cried a moment when I found out he was going to be a boy. At the time, I was assuming we had Coen, we’d have one of our own, and that would be all she wrote. But this sweet, sensitive, darling boy, he was an absolute breeze. Cluster-feeding aside, he was just about effortless to sleep-train.
No colic, just cuddles. Being his mama was easy from day one, the concept of unconditional love was an absolute no-brainer every time I glimpsed at his cherubic little face and combed his perfect little baby mohawk.
Built-In Besties
He was so easy that it took minimal coaxing to try to give him a baby sibling. We figured, this little guy is just so awesome. Our future outlook doesn’t have to be either/or. It can be both/and! We don’t have to choose between either having children together or pursuing our dreams of sailing. We can both have children and bring them along on the adventure! Orson Kurt needs a built-in best friend!
So, when Orson was 4 months old, we found out we were pregnant again. And much to Nathan’s surprise, since he didn’t think he’d ever have a daughter, we were pregnant with a girl.
More Than I Bargained For…
I know, I know. It’s a wives’ tale, a myth that girl pregnancies make you crazier than boy pregnancies. But it was seriously true for me. And the second she was born, it made perfect sense why I’d felt like a wretched and wrathful butt for nine. grueling. months.
Her birth was fast and furious compared to Orson’s. I got an epidural what felt like was just in time. Someone told a joke, I laughed hard, and there she was…screaming, raging, and angry. So angry.
The connection was not effortless this go around. She definitely wasn’t as cute of a baby as Orson was on Day 1, which came as a “Hmm, not exactly what we expected” surprise. Her face was bruised and swollen. She looked like a grumpy, little grandma. Contrary to common opinion, not all babies are born cute.
Born Evil?
The colic was brutal. And never ending. At least for 5 months.
For the sake of emotional vulnerability, total honesty for the sake of someone experiencing something similar, I admitted more than once that her colic gave me far more empathy for the mothers who hurt their children. I knew I never would hurt my babies, but the psychological torment that colic is made me have more compassion and understanding for those that have.
I’m not condoning hurting children in any way, shape, or form. But postpartum psychosis is horrible. Our mental health care system is broken and dismissive. And colic is torture.
Were there times I considered she might just have been born evil? That she might be doing this on purpose to try to make our lives miserable? Nah, but it made it hard to initially bond with her.
A Different Perspective than a “Born Evil” Narrative
At times, it felt as though she actively resented attempts to comfort her. She refuses pacifiers and has never sucked her thumb. Until we got a mesh zip up tent to go over her crib, she’d even throw her comfort lovey out of bed every night just to scream and rage about it.
Right out the gate, she has had insanely strong lungs. Her constant screams had my nervous system so perpetually burnt out, I lived in “fight-or-flight”. My body would reflexively jerk at the first hint of another shrill crying bout.
There were times it might’ve been easier to just think she’d been born evil, excuse myself from the responsibility of raising her right despite my resentment of the circumstances. Play the victim of my infant daughter and start formulating the narrative that she’s a burden so she can carry that hang-up into every relationship for the rest of her life…
But at the height of her colic and our collective emotional distress, I remember holding her, pacing with her, and speaking over her. Or telling others that may have been around to witness an episode. My daughter can’t help it. I know that it’s so hard now, but she’s going to be an unstoppable force. She’s going to be bold and strong and fierce. This will be okay. She will be amazing. Through tears, she’s going to be amazing.
A Redemption Story
Now, the colic is a closed chapter, and Nova is 18 months old. For as angry as she seemed for so long, she’s an absolutely vibrant, radiant spark of warmth and joy. She is bold and fiercely independent. She’s not super affectionate unless she decides she’s in the mood for snuggles. But her smile makes everyone is the room smile and/or laugh.
She brings the party. She’s never met a stranger. And you should see this girl dance! We see in her personality that she’s unequivocally an extrovert, a performer, a total ham.
My parents did tell me growing up many times how my mother prayed before I was born that I would have a special purpose or calling for my life…cute. Must have been super disappointing when I was born so evil.
The Weight of Expectations
The issue with that, with reminding your child of this prayer, especially in times when you feel said child is not meeting the bar, you place the burden of expectation squarely on your child’s shoulders. What is my purpose? What am I supposed to do in this life that has meaning and divine purpose?
Do I plan to repeat ad nauseum to my daughter that I prayed to God I’d have the opportunity to break cycles with her? Likely not until she’s much older and can understand nuance. When she’s old enough to understand that the burden of expectation for a positive mother-daughter relationship is not solely her responsibility.
I’m not going to put the impetus and pressure of a weighty multi-generational struggle onto her, or have her doubt her worth if she felt she wasn’t living up to this prayer. Still, Nathan and I often marvel at what a redemption story she feels like.
Nova is young Meagan’s second chance. Which is ironic. My parents always used the curse “I hope you have kids that are just like you when you grow up”.
Born into Evil
To hear my parents tell it, I was definitely born evil. And in cutting them off to go No Contact, I’ve really lived up to that reputation for them.
In truth, I was born into an emotionally immature and abusive household with an evil atmosphere. Might I have had a difficult temperament as a child? I’m sure. Maybe a stronger personality that they felt ill-equipped to work with. But I was a child.
Instead of parenting with patience and empathy or seeking support for the autism she aLwAyS sUsPeCtEd I had, I’d be locked in my room for hours at a time. Or have the door opened to throw an ice cold glass of water in my face so that I’d take a breath and stop crying/screaming. Because, as she’d say, I’d get caught in a loop, and the ice cold water actually helped me break out of it.
Fix the behavior, ignore the emotion and dysregulation beneath it. Just make it go away by any means necessary. I was born into evil. I may have been difficult without the support I needed as a toddler. But I was. not. born evil.
We look at Nova and see the little girl that I could have been if I’d been raised in a loving home with support and healthy boundaries. She is stubborn and loud and boisterous and has an emotional intensity that makes telling her no potentially volatile. She knows what she wants, and she knows what she doesn’t want. And she can clearly communicate that knowledge and makes sure that everyone else is acutely aware of her desires as well.
Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
My daughter can rage, and her anger can be so intense that it takes active mindfulness not to be reactive. While I’m still taking the time to teach her emotional regulation strategies and holding firm, consistent boundaries, and while it’s harder to remain calm with her, I love her passion.
I love her ferocity and tenacity and vibrancy. I love that she feels safe to express all of her feelings and big, BIG emotions to us, even when it makes us feel like we’re in the line of fire. Will I teach her to express her emotions in a healthy way? Yes. Will I squelch them or try to extinguish her fire. Hell no.
Having intense feelings does not equate to being born evil. I want her to be intense and confident. Self-assured and bold. I want for her all of the emotional security and support and patience that I was never afforded as a child. And I want her to know how to say “No!” and not just feel like she has to say “yes” because “good girls are agreeable and don’t argue“.
Whether smiling so big that the eye dimple she inherited from me pops or shrieking so loud when a toy is taken away that my ears bleed, I want her to know that her feelings are all safe. She is safe. I want her to be emotionally free like I wish I could have been.
And my darling SuperNova Mira absolutely is.
